I am
a Pollock painting









Give me something abstract.
Give me something metaphoric.
Give me something without
colors, words, shape, or sound.
They all hurt the same.

Give me something new.
I want to be excited.
If it can turn me on like creativity once had,
then I want it;
as long as it has no meaning.

I want it to push me further;
this thought that makes me so lonely.
Does the result make the trip worth it?
Sometimes it seems so very necessary.

I need something open,
something without walls or boundary.
I need something that exists but doesn’t,
something I can formulate to no end,
question to no answer, and lead me nowhere,
yet, everywhere else in the process.



Grow.

The shrink.



Then I want to throw it all away.



Welcome all, this is my kingdom
of fantasy and surrealism;
I numb myself with experimentation
into hypothetical situation.
I draw them out so I may feel them,
and finally relate to the world I live in,
even though I am so disconnected;
this place would be boring, if I were to ever know
what boredom is.






The vibrations break me down
and, cell by cell, recreate me.
Now a mold of color, word, shape, and sound,
and I barely hold any form or consistency.

The vibrations make me up
as within everything existing.
Weaving patterns, sleeping dormant,
I don’t quite know where this is going.

All I know is
I have become a product of myself;
a victim to experimentation.
I create who I am as I become what I create,
and am beginning to question whether it’s worth it.

I will sabotage my own mind and body
just to find that certain feeling I need
to attain that concept I have been
searching for.
Moving towards a marvelous self destruction.



The vibrations shake me unconscious,
gently towards a new confusion.
Through said confusion I attain a new irrelevant truth
dire to the make up of my own personal universe.

The vibrations wake me up
violently back to this land of the anti-surreal.
Where I was born and where I will lay to rest,
here, a grave for the wonderless.
Uninspired.
Unimportant.





Grow.

The shrink.

Then I want to throw it all away.

The Mute.

I have trouble filtering all the disappointments
my chest aches with every thought of
what could have been
had I only been more vocal,
had I only been more honest.
Now I look into every possibility
with regret.
I see myself making the same mistakes.
I see myself making the same mistakes.

Something that feels this strong
can crush you,
and beneath this weight,
this familiar make-believe
anticipation,
you are crushing me.
Don't lead me to lead myself on.
It is not your fault; I am just
a fool in love with the idea of this foolishness.
A fool who needs someone to make him a fool.

I cannot shake this obsession,
but i can shift it at will
to somebody more friendly to my
frail structure, someone who can
accommodate my ideas of possibility.
And someone with whom
I may forget.
With whom
I may forget you.
But I find myself making the same mistakes.
I find myself making the same mistakes.

For you were the very same thing.
You were the very same thing
as she was,
and as she will be.

All a victim to my silence.

I am beginning to grow scared of myself again

Distracted

Transfixed,
the word does me no justice.
I am sorry,
but the emotion is indescribable,
all I can relate to you is obsession.

I wear my surface on the surface,
but what is inside of me
stays as hidden as my insides.
I am sorry, I want more for you,
but that may take time
if you have the time.

Love,
it has become as shallow a word
as hate, as need, as will.
There needs to be an alternative
that can truly express
my sincerity, and how I feel.

Maybe not.

Drunk.

My favorite part of being drunk
is not the new found enthusiasm for life,
it is not feeling the weight melt
from my shoulders and my mind,
it is not forgetting,
no.
It is how the lights seem to dim,
yet brighten around me at the same time.
How they seem to blend,
all shades,
all hues,
all contrasts;
how they seem to blend.
It is how I feel consumed.
And while consumed, I can feel emotion again.
I feel how I feel I should feel,
I can process how I should process,
and now
I can be human for a while.

And time stops...

My Fixation With Hair

I remember when I was young
and my mother would watch over me
because she was too scared
to send me to a public kindergarten.
Naptime would come along
and I would never be able to sleep.
She, though, would lay and rest,
having been so overwhelmed with exhaustion.

It had been a pattern in my early years
that instead of napping,
they’d leave me to find a way
to keep myself occupied.
So I found solace in playing with her hair
to keep from being lonely,
and to be closer to the churchwoman
who would disappear for years at a time.

I would burrow tunnels, foxholes,
for my army toys to hide in.
Tie tight knots for bunkers, sandbags,
and engage in a full-out war reenactment.

I would brush her hair with gentle strokes;
the texture still lives on in my fingers.
I would distress, and still do, on occasion
at how I never had hair that soft and perfect.

I would make patterns and design,
pulling and laying her hair
in every-which direction.
Until my father came in to remove me
for being a brat, he would say,
and for being a nuisance.

But no matter how many times
I would tug, tie, dig, twist, and tangle,
no matter how many times I woke her,
accidentally hurt her,
leaving her hair ugly and mangled;
the very next day she would let it down
and let me roam free in my
favorite childhood playground.

Hands

I was staring at my hands,

imagining them fifteen years ago

and how small they used to be,

and how small they seem now.

How I used to compare them

to my father’s hands,

and how I would hope to never have his

fat, sausage-like, hairy fingers.

I think, in a way, my hands have

ended up shockingly similar,

depressingly disfigured.

I hope my hands are never

as uncomfortable to hold as his.

I remember holding mine into his,

comparing size and width;

secretly cursing him and his hands

while he smiled down at how cute

my curiosity in his palm was.

I feel that I will regret

having this memory one day.