Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Leftovers (Shadows & Scars: Update 15)

I was going through my poetry notebook and realized I forgot to include these in the previous piece.  Perhaps they will one day be united, but for now, an addendum.

4/14/12, Cicero, IN

2 More Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Date A Poet

1.      Baggage.  Sure, everyone has baggage, but poets immortalize it in ink and enshrine it upon paper thrones.  When the music plays, you must bend the knee.

2.      Passive-Aggressiveness.  Poets express their unspoken feelings through poetry, most of which the recipient will never see.  And even the words that are seen are so cloaked in obscurity as to make them indiscernible.  Nonetheless, the poet will live as if the recipient had seen and understood all, and resent the fact that nothing has changed.  Then the poet will write even more poetry, thus perpetuating both his passion and this destructive cycle.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

a PSA with testimonial evidence from victims and specialists (Shadows & Scars: Update 14)


This one has been in the works for quite a while.  But it has been a LOT of fun to write. :-p


7/22/11, Martin, TN
11/21/11, Penn Medicine at Valley Forge waiting area
1/27/12 // 3/25/12, Cicero, IN


"I learned a lot about poets and poetry that day and it is my contention that poets are weak shy people who will not look you in the eye. They are like Horace, scribbling spidery things in dark corners, frightened of their fathers, the law, and everything else. They are women who expect their husbands to be mind-readers. They are resentful and cruel. They spend sunny days planning dark revenges where they will punish those who wish them well." (Peter Carey, Illywhacker)

“…a poet is a queer and incompetent creature, a daydreaming ne’er-do-well, an eccentric trying to escape the business of the everyday world, a soft and coddled soul.” (Louis Untermeyer)

5 Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Date A Poet

  1. Poetry.  As much as you may enjoy poetry, you must realize it is a farce created by poets to lure you into a deadly trap.  The gift itself is the poison, and a relationship built upon such duplicity is bound for destruction.  Consider this fair warning: whatever you are expecting, you will be disappointed. And I quote, “I’ve never met someone as complicated as you. It’s like travelling through the universe, and just when you think you’ve reached a planet where you can land, you discover a black hole instead.
  2. Family Dinners.  Poets are not the kind of guys you want to take home to meet your parents. They live almost entirely in their heads, engrossed in emotional symbols and metaphors, which means they don’t have a lot to add to dinner table discussions about the real world. Sure, it can be deceptively fascinating to read poetry, but there is no doubt it makes poor conversation.  In fact, poets write so much in hopes that they won’t be asked to speak at all.  If they do have to speak, however, it takes twice as long to formulate thoughts that aren’t even half as coherent as their written ones.
  3. Happiness.  Plus, “poet” is certainly not the career choice which instills great confidence in parents wishing to ensure their daughter’s future security and well-being. And I quote, “Jason* has a job? Huh, well I’m surprised. I didn’t think he was ever going to do anything in life.”  It isn’t called the starving artist routine for nothing.  Poets don’t have a lot to offer when it comes to financial stability.
  4. Reliability.  Or any kind of stability for that matter.  Poets thrive on melancholic endorphins.  They enjoy even their sadness.  While they will admit this is pretty twisted, they insist they like it that way.  Poets are dissatisfied with the status-quo, which means they are continually seeking discontentment; happiness is always their dream but when it approaches them, they find a way to escape.  And I quote, “Self-sabotage is totally your personality disorder.”  Is that really the kind of life you want to join?
  5. Self-Obsession.  In fact, poets are egotistically focused on themselves.  Besides compiling their random thoughts into books and expecting people to pay hard-earned cash for the “privilege” of reading them, they generally orient their entire daily lives around self-promotion. Poets try to be self-abasing in an attempt to appear humble, when in actuality they know self-deprecation and self- aggrandizement are really twins.  They are very good at using clever disguises, though, to conceal their self-centeredness.   For example, a poet might make a list entitled “5 Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Date A Poet” when what he really means is “5 Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Date Me.” 

 *Names have not been changed in order to incriminate the guilty.  Call it “poetic justice” if you will, since poets do not respect others’ privacy.  If you get too close to a poet, your life (both the good and the bad) will end up in poetry for all to read. This is as inevitable as it is despicable.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Unexpected Inciting Incident (Shadows & Scars: Update 13)

March 1, 2012
Location: IA Boys' Dorm Office; Cicero, IN

Listening to: Creed, Weathered


Promises (to Myself)

I will not resort to platitudes.
I will not fake a smile, or a tear.
I will not pretend.
I will not seek revenge.
I will not take the passive role.
I will not play the victim, or the hero.
I will be myself.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Regression is the Key to Progress (Shadows & Scars: Update 12)

January 15, 2012
Location: IA Boys' Dorm Office; Cicero, IN

Listening to: Bradley Hathaway, A Thousand Angry Panthers



More detailed updates coming soon.  For now, some stuff I've been working on:



She moves like the wind
and I am the empty arms
of a winter tree, lacking
even leaves for her to rustle
as she passes through.


Sometimes You Need To Get A Little Dirt In Your Eyes Before You Can See Clearly

Upstairs, I have retreated
from your arrival.  Blindly,
I saw you, and saw the scales
fall from my eyes.

Now I need a moment to breathe,
to purge the poison from my veins,
ashamed of how easily I was swayed
away from you, against you.

Around the corner,
I hesitate and listen to your voice,
clear and light, piercing through
the walls of my mistakes.

My eyes are open
for the first time again.

All I see is you.

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

I Wrote This A Few Weeks Ago (Shadows & Scars: Update 11)

Sometime during the beginning of December
Location: Cicero, IN

In my mind, I see much more of this scene than I put into detail below.  Perhaps I will add to it later. Perhaps I will just let your imaginations fill in the gaps.



The light is so soft I can hardly bear its gentle touch upon my face. The warmth is ever so inviting. Still, I cannot ignore the chill at my back, here between what has been and what could be.

Despite my discomfort, I don’t turn away. In this beauty, I could lose myself. I could find myself. I could belong. I could…

He places His hand upon my shoulder. I turn to see Him taking in the view as well. I try to read His face, but it is indiscernible. There is always a mystery in His eyes.

He turns to me, a smile of sadness and myrrh upon His face. “Come, we have work to do.”

I nod, but don’t move. I turn to gaze back upon the world just beyond my grasp. Moments slip away uncounted. Finally, I breathe, “Okay.” Still I remain unmoved.

His hand squeezes my shoulder firmly, in a way I take to mean, “If I lead you away, I can lead you back,” but could just as easily mean, “Take your last look, son of Moses.”

Either way, with that hand upon my shoulder, we turn – the warmth slipping from my face – and return to the darkness.

I want to ask Him when we will return, or if we even will. I have so many questions. But His eyes are already set ahead and I know those questions hold no answers yet.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Like A Snack, When What You Really Want Is... (Shadows & Scars: Update 10)

December 7, 2011
11:23 pm
Location: IA Boys Dorm Apt.; Cicero, IN

Listening to: Starflyer 59, Talking Voice Vs. Singing Voice 


Resentment is the poison we drink ourselves,
but forgiving you feels like a toxin of its own.


I cut the rope

that keeps me tethered between
you on the bridge above
and the great unknown below.

Except, I do know
what's below: my death
and everything after that.


Lay your blame on me.
I’ll take it all – deserved
and undeserved – because
I know you hurt
but I can take the pain.


Why is it so hard for us to do the things we really want in life?  I am unable to move forward. I keep running into walls. I try to progress, but for some reason I remain stuck. I have opportunities but they all seem stalled out. Like some barrier is preventing true meaning.

There are things I need to "deal with." Shadows and scars... including the self-inflicted ones. And even when they seem behind me, still they drag me back when I try to take a step forward. They cannot be ignored. They must be faced.

Imagine: freedom.

What if we could really do what we really want to do?

Monday, November 7, 2011

*For exceptions, see Appendix 16, Section 14 (Shadows & Scars: Update 09)

November 7, 2011
10:05 pm
Location: IA Boys Dorm Apt.; Cicero, IN

Listening to: Emery, The Question 

just a few bits and pieces I was working on tonight...



In the morning
we are all less grand
with our suits and dresses
back in the closet
or crumpled on the floor.

Already the faces fade,
dissipating with the emotional charge
of such a fine evening.

We pack our bags, relishing
and regretting what could have been.

Perhaps the magic is in the distance,
in the unlimited possibility:
enticing as long as it remains
untested, just beyond our grasp.


Honesty is the lie
we tell each other
to maintain the illusion
that we have nothing left to hide.


Stretch me out across the sky,
thin enough to see
what casts this chill
across your face.