Untitled

It's cold but no rain falls down from the bleak sky
I feel as if my soul hurts on these kind of days
the only remedy is to listen to the slow hesitant notes
played on a plain piano that sits in the parlor of my mind
smelling of rosewood and nostalgic melodies that tickle
at my memory of days that had more sunlight, that
were filled with summer and laughter and iced tea.
If only the rains would come again to drown out the
chills that my own sorrows bring on when I find myself
alone missing people I have never met but still hoping
would be here to haunt me in my small darkened house
so far away from the chaos of modern civilization yet
no more isolated than the crowded rooms fill with
drones texting ghosts in other densely packed spaces.
Their faces emotionless whereas mine is calm save
for the occasional tears that slips away as the words
that I type draw forth a particular pain, a longing to
feel the touch of another's hand on my neck reminding
me that there is still love and compassion in this
long dim day in midwinter. I want take a cup of
English tea, a cube of sugar, as if to kiss the hot water
with sweet reminiscence and sip away this melancholy
that remains at my side as I realize that if only but for
a moment I am now back in my tiny house again.

Lost in Translating a Thought

What I had wanted to say was that I did not hate being alone but that loneliness was nothing that
I had ever wanted to be found in, that my life has been in isolation longing, often secretly, just
to be with someone there to share the long silences in comfortable companionship.
Instead it came out like the cry of the desolation desperation that comes from being too alone for
far too long without the understanding of what the touch of another human being feels like and
all that comes in the multitude of impressions and feelings from the contact of human skin
on another's.
What I had wanted to express was that my needs meant more to me than this compulsion that some people have to sacrifice themselves- their very being in order to not feel alone while they are- in fact, alone even when they are in a crowd of people that on most days they would call friends as if liking
posts and selfies on Facebook would give them the validation that they were any better off than me.
Instead I just came across as judgmental and elitist and cold and aloof from everyone else seeming that I was really wanting to say that I needed no validation and that my own company would carry me through the wasteland that is what most of us call modern life where our collective isolation is a mask for our deep need to reach back to moments in our youth where we thought we belonged with people who understood us.
What I said was that I wanted to stay with you and never leave.
Not that I could not stand alone nor that I did not need you as much as I would love to need anyone
but I lost the thought in the translation of my hand reaching out to touch yours.

Let's just call it Something like Poetry

The darkness of my small room surrounds the bright screen as I search for
words to capture a meaning that I have yet to comprehend and give voice to.
The music tickles at my brain and a memory that is still blurry forms into a
single word and then the silence is broken by the cacophony of feelings,
desires, wants, needs and the losses that fill the space inbetween what I am
going to write and what I want to keep safe and warm inside of my dreams.

I type with the fury of one who has waited so long that the impressions 
I have experienced are but the ghosts along the outer walls of my sanctuary
that wall in what I have left and left without, like the ideas that spawn bad 
seeds to creep like savage vines with razor sharp thorns around my ivory
towers, the illusion remains somewhat intact although this is not how I had
planned to act, the final fallacy, in the hideous little cracks of the rules
I wanted to keep and those I had to flail out in chaos so that my words
would spurn the changes and remain solitary far away from the contact.

It's largely untouchable as the cliches fight like prisoners in the yard
who want to be heard under the uncaring stars that makes up the tragedy
of infamy, I laugh at my word play knowing that the genius is largely
missed as if someone who has henceforth remained unknown just out
of focus, just a little out of reach, strange amongst the strange- now all
at once familiar yet beyond my ability to grasp at its meaning as it shakes
with mirthless wit at my attempts to capture all that it was before the cursor
stops and the words drain away from my emotional effort on the page.

Melancholic Blues.

It's 3am and I am still sitting here thinking.
looking at the net midst the temptations
meditations and annunciations of love
complicitous sex and casual drinking.
It's still before the twilight
no, that's not it, I still can't get it right.

It's 3am and as I surf around the net
wandering from one site to the next
searching for hidden truths, undeniable
secrets, satisfactory silence, trite acts
of mild and passionless violence
I still fear the absence of dreams
no, that's not it at all, nothing is as
simple as it seems.

It's past 3am and I still find that I miss
the person that I haven't ever met- as if
that is something I should try to confess
instead of staying here where I only obsess
as the world falls apart and there is nothing
left to remember not even the memories
of her kiss
I am alone in the dark, there is nothing left
not even the regret, I am adrift, bereft.

The sun is going to still rise and fill this room
as if I can escape my fate, as if hope can exist
as if the pages of my blogs and posts and trolled
comments will erase it all, I can despise this
passion, I can escape my doom.
I will fall into the longness of sleep
with out doubts, without betrayals
without even my tears to weep.

Precipice

It wasn't until I reached the edge, that I stopped to say,

Are you sure this is what you want? 

Look down into the world below,

Look out at the sky around,

Fearing all things, without enough breath.

So far above all my concerns- so far above the sound

of my own treacherous doubts, my reasons

and justifications, beyond the guilts of things that

I have done and left undone,

I stand now under God and the Silent Stars,

Have I truly made it this far?

I stand here, the survivor, the broken hearted.

I am but a man, imperfect- feeling that

I often end back where I started.

I want more, I want love, I want life,

I want to take the next step over this precipice,

out into the wild beyond, the future uncharted.