Poems · writing

We Got To

You tamed me that’s plain to see,

What happens to the tamed once you set them free?

They’ve lost their wild spark,

You’ve laid claim to their tender heart.

So darling why can’t you see?

What you saw as kindness is killing me.


This was meant to be the first verse or two of a song, so that’s why it reads as a little cheesy. May or may not get around to finishing the melody, just wanted to share a little since I’ve been gone for so long.

writing

An End to The Means

I apologize in advance for the mess you’re about to read, I just watched a movie where the dialogue/thought processes of the characters were similar to this, a sort of ongoing never-ending cacophony of words. Sort of dreamlike where you start somewhere without knowing how, and end up somewhere else without trying to.

So afterwards my thoughts were following a similar pattern and that’s kind of how I’d like you to read it. (Or not that’s totally up to you)

I was going to post it without any kind of explanation, but I wanted you to know what you were getting into. A true word-vomit of a pseudo-intellectual run-on sentence fueled by memories and fears and whatever else was going on when I blacked out and wrote this.

Enjoy. (You probably won’t I don’t think any of this will relate to anyone except me lol)


Where do you stop and where do you end and how does anything even begin if you’re waiting waiting waiting

I come to the conclusion that this was all madness and a mistake and we got to but that was your ending not mine you act like you have a right to choose when I had no say in the matter it’s a choose your own adventure which should be something mutual you decide hey let’s go to page eleven not I’ve read ahead and this is where it’s supposed to end-this is where we go and drag me along to whatever future therapist appointment you put me through and there again I see a face your face in everything and everyone and I need to live in the present but what is the present anyway standing half naked in the bathroom fallacies running running in a head that’s turning towards nothing but guesses and wishes and fears

Suddenly the kitten is the cat and the child is the woman and oh she has so much to bear how can she know it all now when she has an encyclopedia written in Spanish French Japanese and she never took her studies seriously so what’s to learn where to go

A poet and that’s all a lover and that’s all a person and that’s all nothing more just friends just hiding behind things no one wants to say or feel or judge to be true if there’s anything to judge at all I would blame you for lying and what is that anyway but a sorry excuse to be blameless when no one can be

You put on a sweater and tell me run on poetry is meaningless coming from a mind half jumbled with numb thoughts of disaster of hope of certainty dashed by someone else’s fears delusions surviving on conditional love a tired old speech falling on tired old ears that never listened when they could deny deny deny any attachment any abandonment any admissions at all

Lying for the sake of it a mother ambassador cell warden general hopped up on concern dished out in quiet mumblings a beseeching of truths too dishonest to matter a frog in hot water doesn’t realize the lies its mother tells until they become its own

A speech from lips shadowed by another’s and who could go on anyway scrounging after love after acceptance after peace after misery after missing love connection home it’s winter and there’s no one to come home to

Not the right kind not the permanent kind always fluctuating nebulous none committal cyclical hypocrisy But that’s just it then toothpaste on the counter never a lover chirping to the sound of diligent waves and a love without conditions was too foreign to calm could not be enough

Figure it out a purring sense of broken edges bent into places you never said you’d take me

The trance is gone.

Poems · writing

Possibly Everything

Cleaning up corpses on the freeway,
Bloody spatter for miss November.
Moving on from Hollywood.
We’ve missed November, I’ll start when it’s over
And over it’s been in my mind again.

So it goes, lost in the wind.

Circling back, dropping the pin,
In a room too full to notice it’s ran out of gin.
Startled into recompense;
Turning it over til it all makes sense.
November was missed and I’ll start again,
Buckling under the rain.

So it goes, running thin.

You’ve grown too fat, you’ve gotten too short, the mind scolds the broken heart.
She’s working around it but nobody notices the note left out in the bin.

So it goes,
Missing November,
She found it hard to remember,
Her way back into life again.

So it goes.
Don’t stop me.

This one was kind of a mish-mash of ideas on my drive home late at night, hence the sort of jarringly different stanzas as the tone of it changed once I got home to work on it.

I tried adding little transitions between stanzas as a way to make it flow a little better. Not sure how well it worked but I liked it enough to publish it, so.

Thank you for reading!

-T.D.P.

Poems · writing

The Hazards

I want you to know that I’m trying to hate you.

To put every little thing you’ve done into a box and throw it into the river that made you realize you still loved me.

Let it sink to the bottom along with your near-death and dissolve into spent memories settling into the sediment.

Sway and move with the current.

Lost love,

Lost time,

William and Margaret,

A watery marriage bed,

Left to drown under the force of a Mother’s love.

But I pulled you and I called you here,

And now instead of saying goodnight, I’ve finally found the breath to say goodbye.

Poems · writing

Bitter in its Sweetness/Estranged

Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud; 

You left me and I’ve nowhere to go.


You carried my heart with you,

You carried it in your heart.


When the door closed and the sun set


You took my heart with you,

You carried it in your heart.


You told me I was whatever a moon has always meant,

And whatever a sun will always sing is you.


You carry my heart with you,

You carry it in your heart.


And I wish you would bring it back.

Poems · writing

An In N Out Dreary

In memory you are lost

As I second guess the cost

Of sickness spreading faster

Unmitigated disaster


Dwelling on those winter days

Brand new love a dizzy haze

Walking far into the night

Knowing we were quite the sight


In the timepiece of my heart

Hoping something new will start

Waiting til the stars align

For you again to be mine

Poems · writing

Tryhard

Sometimes I convince myself that my teeth could bite through metal

That the razor edges would do nothing to the soft parts of my mouth

That I wouldn’t bleed

Sometimes I think that I could crush glass between my fingers

That the glazed sand would find no purchase on my soft tissue

That I wouldn’t tear

Sometimes I imagine that if you were here I would be able to stand it

That the sound of your voice would be nothing but a residual melody in my mind. Your face an inkblot.

That I wouldn’t crumble.

But I know, I know, I know.

The moments tick by and I know.

I bleed, I tear, I crumble.

I am no match for the dreams that play in my head

writing

Word Count Exceeded

I think sometimes we need a break.

I get lost in the chatter and sometimes don’t realize how much I’m affected by it all. I change my voice, speech patterns, my bias, all based on who I surround myself with but even more so based on what I’m consuming.

I’ve been thinking about cutting media out for awhile, (social and otherwise), but then I worry about how much I’ll “miss out” on. Though, is missing that funny Tweet really going to be that detrimental? Will endlessly scrolling through TikToks and Instagram memes better my life if I keep them as a priority like I have for years? I don’t think so.

“Everything in moderation”, that’s what people like to say, and I don’t disagree, but it’s difficult to kick something that feels like it’s constantly rewarding you. I rack up likes on Twitter because of something funny I said, people like the picture I posted on Instagram because the caption was silly or the picture was cute.

I want to be funny. I want to be liked, and above all I want to be valued. Why put effort into something that takes actual time out of my day like writing a short story, a poem, an article, when a self deprecating Tweet about my depression will do just as well to satisfy that itch? Dopamine is a convincing drug.

And people have short attention spans when it comes to content on their screens, I get that. It’s easier to hit “like” on something than to click through to a link and read actual paragraphs of something you may not end up having any interest in at all. On the creator’s end that’s difficult to accept. It’s disappointing. It’s easier to give in and just scroll for hours instead of sitting down and cranking out that first draft, that sketchbook doodle, that chord progression, whatever.

And then in order to be seen in a significant way you need to have a following. But how do you get a following? How do you self promote without burning people out? Is it all really just sheer luck? I have no clue, but it has to be better to put yourself out there rather than not.

So go do it! Write an outline for that short story, sketch your DnD character, pick up an instrument, take a picture of the sun! Whatever! Or don’t, I’m not your mom.

But I think you should.