They can’t make me; I’ve been here before.
I’ll show them all out there.
It can’t be worse than this constant war,
I’m better off out there.
Because I know it won’t be long,
They’ll be sorry, and things will change.
They’ll see the ways that they were wrong,
I’ll come back, and things will change.
That’s what I thought the day I ran,
And what I truly believed.
I remember how it all began,
What I naively believed.
The longer on my own, I guess,
The more I felt the pain.
I grew used to the loneliness,
And came to love my pain.
I slipped away when they come close,
I didn’t want to be found.
Let them imagine I’m decomposed,
Decaying, never to be found.
And soon that wasn’t far from truth,
They’d hardly recognize
The hardened life that stole my youth
Reflected in my eyes.
I drift from street to street out here
My friends, they come and go.
And pass the time, from year to year
With plans that come and go.
Sometimes, I think I’ll find a place,
Safe, out of the wind.
But I learned long ago, there’s no such space,
So I turn into the wind.
We were born with brains and spines.
(And the choice to use them as we see fit)
I experimented with various techniques
Weighed the dangers and benefits.
I struggled through years of trial and error
Of internal peace and war,
And gradually gained a truth worth all the pain.
Here’s what I’ve learned thus far:
When I slouched and let my thoughts run amok
Pain came, filled my body and head.
When I sat with care and reasoned with intention,
Growth and wisdom resulted.
Discipline creates character
And makes a brain into a mind.
And strength is built when we make the choice
To have backbone, instead of a spine.
Changing defeating mindsets, destructive patterns, and damaging coping mechanisms is not easy. Simply because none of those things developed in a day, thus, they won’t be dug out in a day.
They’ve grown roots, deep ones, and negativity has watered them well. Sadistically, they’ve granted their host an ignominious identity as victim. Their host has become comfortable with them, to the degree that the loss of them causes a type of panic. “What will I do, who will I be, without these pathologies?”
Taking new, constructive approaches to challenges can feel as foreign as learning to write with the non-dominant hand. Frustration ensues, and a desire to ‘just go back to the other way’ rises up. After all, even if that path ends in hell, at least the landlord there is “the devil you know”.
But what of Heaven? What if, in that new way of life, a path opens up to a place the diseased martyr has never been? A place where both illness is excised and the label ‘sinner’ is replaced with health and ‘saint’? If that is the destination, isn’t it worth the journey?
In the end, there is a choice. For the host, it’s often hard to see that the roads diverge, but if you look closely through strained vision and the low fog, a northern gravel trail will come into view. Narrow and steep, it may not seem as appealing as the clear, downhill highway to the south. It may be unsettling to be ignorant of its twists and turns, when the well-worn side streets of the common route are so familiar. But recall the dead ends. The roundabouts that re-set the trip to START.
Intrepid traveler, your maps reveal what wisdom you’ve earned. The sun is up:
I carry with me the magic of light dancing on a stream in a handful of glitter,
I remember the dusky clouds each time I pass a hand through my sunset hair,
The life and aroma of the hyacinth I keep close to my nose in an unbroken circle,
The beauty of love I carve into my skin, that my heart may be kept aware.
You may not see or hear or perceive the world that I do around me,
Or maybe it doesn’t mark your outsides, like patina, as it does to me.
But all that I am reflects my connection with the majesty and glories of this world.
Yet you look back at me, and say what you see is a person who is clearly- unnatural.
I write about the inner struggles of the individual; the pains of the soul, mind and heart. Is this because I am insensible to the struggles of society? Quite the opposite.
I believe that systemic persecution, oppression and inequalities arise out of damages unhealed in the lonely, singular being. Repair the damage in the man, and you prevent the damage he may do to a nation.
Modern rhetoric, with its dependence on pithy memes and ‘top 10’ lists, homogenizes the population, then offers generalized, flippant solutions to complex dysfunctions. No longer are you ‘John Smith’; you’re a ‘leftist, millenial male’ or a ‘conservative, white-collar Christian’, and once you’re categorized, certainly prescriptive guidance can be offered that applies equally to everyone of your ‘type’.
Our singularity is lost in the generic character of our problem-solving.
As an artist, I focus on the small wound, on the crack that becomes a break. In stories of failure and misfortune, I don’t indict; I console. We have all fallen short. I seek to examine where the trouble began, retrace our steps, and do better next time.
If you see yourself in a character, or hear your tragedy in a song, or watch your inner demons dance in a poem, you know that you are not alone.
In the strictest sense, poetry is words arranged into verse. But for me…poetry is the basis of human existence.
Certainly, the words are the raw material. But they needn’t be written. They can be spoken, sung…represented by drawings or sketches. They can be the thoughts that pass through one’s brain early in the morning, before logic and reason have warmed up their machines to make the cogs run smoothly.
When I came to this conclusion, I realized that I’d been a poet all my life. Not merely once I’d started writing structured verses in earnest. From the songs I’ve composed to the ink on my body, I’ve been searching for and creating meaning out of the occurrences, emotions, and phenomena of the human experience. All in the pursuit of truth.
And the longer I’ve pursued, the more convinced I’ve become of its mercurial nature. Truth is subjective. Truth is malleable. And it is the only thing worth striving for.
Not universal truth, for that doesn’t exist. Hold an opinion of any kind, and you will find numerous authorities and articles to support it. You will also be inundated by proofs to the contrary. So looking for truth from human sources, which are fallible, is fruitless.
You can find opinions that resonate with your own belief system. But that leads you right back into self. What do YOU believe is true? And why do you believe it? What comfort/fear/hope/despair/salvation does it offer you? And is it worth sharing?
This is why poetry exists. To share the truths that each poet has discovered on his or her path. These are as valid as the studies in medical journals, perhaps more; to wit, the scientific facts of cancer bear less truth about life with the disease than does a sonnet penned by a survivor.
Writing poetry is not a whimsical pastime. It is, in fact, perhaps the most important perpetuation of a culture’s humanity. Ideas and ideals that reveal prejudices and passions, sometimes timely, sometimes timeless, bleed through every line of a well- written poem.
I often say that I am not even real, that I am just a metaphor. That my songs reveal my thoughts, that my poems reveal my heart, that my outward appearance reveals my soul. Every part of me is a canto in the story of my journey…and I have miles to go.
