Looks like a Winter Wonderland...but it feels like a Gulag

*an apology to those who live/d in the real gulag, you know, I know sheesh, oh well.


There is almost nothing as cheerless as knowing that you are trapped by the
frozen feelings that pervade like the icicles that drop occasionally from my
roof like great falls of ancient ice down into the white miasma that covers
everything as I want to run away out into the gray and flounder as I find
myself lost out there in this winter wonderland.... but it feels like a gulag.

A conversation.

What happened next?
Well, there was a girl and by girl I mean woman and by woman I mean wow. She walks into
the men-filled room and you know that it was as silent as a-
Let me guess a Tomb?
Yes, She was stunningly beautiful in a way that gets men moving, which in this case was out of
her path as she strode right through and up to me.
I can see where this is going?
Well, it is all about the knowing and such knowledge is seldom missed, always complicated and
never free.
What did she want?
I was coming to that. Anyway, she walked up to me and then with a sudden burst of flair she
reared her arm back and while I saw it coming there was no dodging that slap.
So, in other words, another cliche moment-
Hey! This is my story and only I know where it went, I can assure that it was time well spent!
Sorry, please continue
No, you've upset me and no I leave you with this one thing on which your mind and chew. She wanted wanted to kiss me but that would have required admitting that would have taken more than
her heart to flutter, like the man that stood next to me to utter with a sudden stutter that she knocked
the words right out of me as anyone can see. She grabbed my by my shirt, I grabbed my flaming red cheek which I might say was beginning to hurt, pulling me close enough to inhale her breath, so sweet, so musky that I went hoarse and by hoarse, I mean husky.
What did she say? What did you do?
She said that she was sorry, that this wasn't going to be a good day, so many aren't you know, only a few.
That's what she said?
That what I said she said if only to remind me that I would soon have to listen to you.

My sense of snow

At first, it's like the soft tickling sensation that occurs somewhere between dawn and
the moment where I open my eyes from the waking dream thinking that I need to
remember this but soon forgetting where I put my pen and paper to record these
fleeting dreams. I wake to the crystals in my eyes and the hard reflection of sunlight
bullying its way into the room where I sleep now. I raise my arm, then wince from my
sense that the cold is still in the warmth of the bed where I have rested alone save for the
visions that share that space with my cat who looks at me and yawns his contempt of me
for forcing him from his comfortable spot in the crook of my armpit.
I want to blink away the white expanse in order to see the green fields of spring, to know
that I will escape the confines of my mother's house, to go where I want, even if it is only
to the prison of my job or the dull density of shopping for food I don't really want or even
like as with all things like vitamins and exercise- the things I must do when all I really want
is to stand in the shower for another hour, letting the drops of water steam away all sensation
but the sense of wet warmth running across the expanse of my skin until I must face another
day and then I remember that it has snowed in the night and that after all that effort I have no
where to really go, no escape but into the words and the virtual space in which I hope to fill it
with.

Hope is a slight and shadowed Thing.

Some days start with rain and storms- I want to stay in bed, cover my head and wail only as loud
as the noise outside my window pane, but I will abstain as I want to remain unnoticed by the dream that sleeps beside me. She is so beautiful that I want her to continue though the dawn erases her presence from my bed.
Instead, I gird up my loins, rising to meet the day and the stress, I will shower and dress, finding some food I will try to suppress all that would come down with this ever present rain, down to depress to remind me of the constant strain that each day brings down so hard on my brain.
Some days turn out to be sunny as if to say that it really would be funny to take that dread that stays clouding in my head as if to say here's so jam for your bread instead. Some days end with the most beautiful sunsets as if all the despair was worth that one moment that sings on my heart's frets like the strings that the night will bring and I can look forward once again to falling back into sleep, those promises that she said she would keep, the vow that shines and gleams as my lady returns to haunt me with sweet presence in my dreams.
Hope is a slight and shadowed thing that only the immersion of REM will bring.
Now my soul sings to the presence beside me as we slip away into memory on imaginations wings.

broken.

I am just broken.
There's nothing left to fix in me.
Sometimes I think that I have found the way out of me, sometimes I want to
believe that I have no more tears to cry, that somehow there still room to try.
That I can stand on my own and be, but that is just the lies I tell myself
because I am broken as anyone else can see.

I am like a broken toy,
that the parent is tired of gluing back together, that the child is bored with
pretending that these cracks are somehow better, that the glue will cover
the flaws that show through always and ever, that the stories I want to
tell will lessen those moments when I fail and fall back down to the
ground in pieces as the child cries, the parent sighs and I tell myself
once again that I am broken as another part of me dies.

no more, I cannot take it anymore
I am broken and I am okay with being
broken. Stop trying to fix it or me. Stop trying, shut the door
I want to stop doubting, crying, feeling lost, just no more.

It's untitled.

sometimes the words just won't flow and I find myself writing and erasing and rewriting looking for some feeling that will describe something more than just my desire to than what I want to imagine as the facsimile of emotion or love. I know nothing of the matter as I have yet to find this mysterious emotional state of being in it and no matter the amount of books and movies just cannot make it any more real than the emptiness that surrounds my space, this abyssal lonely spot in the universe where no one but my own heart occupies and the alienness of the ensuing silence is only shattered by another book or movie stream.
I only know of love in my dreams, I dream of being in love most every night and yet when I wake the poetry of the moment that I had just lived is as empty as the page where I want to share all that I am with someone else. The irony is that I no longer feel anything over the loss of something I have never even lost. so there are only so many words that can say that I want to be in love but I don't even know what that love is, at all.
It's like bad seventies joni mitchell songs that get stuck in your head and you want a carpenter song instead and all that you have gone and read might as well be dead like the poetry that you hope each time you write will make these sweet little lies come to life, stop and take note as the poet rhymes it to strife striven across the razor's edge like running your wits along a dulled knife as if to taunt you with more words like wife which has no relation to anything but the dulled desires that no longer nor linger amongst the smulder that was this passion's fires and the words drain away from the poem as the meanings that I am sharing push anyone beyond the caring that I wanted everyone to know.
That is to say that it's truly sad to be someone like me, just wait and see
when there is no one left to phone, when your bed is empty, dinner sits on the table
cold, as you grow old and then you will understand why it stucks to be alone.

An Unsent Letter to a Monster.

To whom it may concern,
and by concern, I know now what you were and probably still are Frank and I hate you for it.
you took my youth and my innocence and had your way with it. There are times when I still remember then stop at war with my impotent rage and ineffectual sorrow as I have to relive your crimes.
The worst of what happened all those years ago comes from the near miss conversations I have with others as they ask something that seems like they all know what you did, what you took from me, little more than just a kid. But what is worse in my memory is the acts I was forced to witness in front of me, the pain you inflicted, the shame you exposed, the melancholy that has kept me in this place as if I were addicted to the very definition of taking the blame.
I want to scream until my voice dries up in my throat, I want to weep for the others who suffered under you clawing hands, I will not give in, not yet, I will not forget the others, I will crawl until I can stand. I want to kill you, I want you to suffer, I want some form of vicious divine justice to fall down from the cloudless sky. I want to find a victory over the damage you have done, I want to find a way to tell this all to my son.
The son, I cannot have because even that has been ripped away like the shreds of my fears floating like leaves in a gust of wind, like the dregs of my tears that have yet to dry or be forgotten or ignored. I wanted to be clean from all this darkness, I wanted someone I could have to adore. but you took it all away before I was old enough even to dream. Now all I have is these ghosts that haunt me in my head, now I am is just another victim found among the dead.
The world is often without enough pity, I want live alone and I walk alone, nothing is what it was supposed to be, I am a thing of doubts and brittle stone.
Somedays could seem bright if I could only successfully erase this awful past, find something that could out last the most recent regret. That I could walk away from this emotional storm, that I could- in the end forget all that you were. I would, I want, but the monster remains there in my shadow and then I know as I have always known, that the pain might grow less, that I might have days when I feel better, but the reality is that nothing can be forgiven until I send this letter.