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.

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.

A Sublime Delusion

The World was different before the stars fell and the sun went out like
a brilliant flower wilting away into the long night. I was young then,
everything had felt so warm and so very right.
Now the cold surrounds me as the snows drift soundlessly to and fro,
the silence is only broken by the sorrow from my soul.
The World was warmer once, as love was still a possibility, then the
hate spread forth from the wastes of our collective mortality.
Apathy takes the place of morality as the dregs of what is left fill the
spaces in between the places where my heart and life used to be.
the World was brighter once and the future seemed so very clear to me,
but now the fogs have come, the days are blurred beyond distinction
like the details lack definition and my focus fails stupendously.
The balance is gone, we fall in a constant backwards slide
down into oblivion, not knowing that the way out is always with us
our chosen ignorance like a sadly macabre sense of chance
a lasting doomed star crossed ideal of fatalistic insane romance,
the black humor, the ironic futility, the sardonic cruelty, the
idiocentric centrifuge of deniability spins out our destruction
as we plunge headlong into the abyss, eyes wide shut, lusting
for our own demise like ravenous dogs biting at the heels
of forgotten messiahs, reality and time itself stumbles and reels
as existence shatters away form the concept that everything
revolves in this place, as if our very lives were nothing more
than one single simple odd on a cosmic roulette wheel.

The cards have been dealt, the game has been played
I no longer can identify how bad I have felt, or whether I should
have held to my bluff and stayed.
The dance floor is empty, the dancers have left, this is the last
call, I am alone and bereft.
One light remains, spotlit on the floor, should I go stand in it
or just walk out like before?

Our words are like weapons, we always use them to fight,
Our words can heal all wounds, make the wrongs seem right.
This is my two bits, the soap box is still there.
the stars have gone out but I am still here.
I am as the maker made me, imperfect and plain.'
I am the poem and this is my refrain.