While We Remember

Dead flowers, elbow space when you're alone, bitter regret of having loved and given away, smudged mascara on a Friday night, rain.

    "Nothing's more beautiful than wallowing in despair."

A teddy bear that used to be someone's best friend but now it's in a box in the attic waiting to get thrown out when that attic is finally getting cleaned.

    "Nostalgia, childhoods that never were - those are the things I seek."

Little bikes with broken wheels, circuses, where the children no longer come, an ambulance on Christmas eve, a balloon flying away, wine alone.

    "One more shot. Just one more."

A writer kills himself with 51 unfinished documents on his laptop, one of which contains the most beautiful sentence ever written.

    "Oh yeah, I'm feeling it now."

A broken record with the world's most beautiful love song, a box of anti-depressants, getting emptier to no avail, one, two, three, four empty wine bottles, a notebook with a 100 reasons why I hate myself, the past.

    "I might seem a bit beside myself, but it's all just a part of my process!"

A 22 year old writer remembers that everyone he knows and loves or every came across will die in the end and so will he, and then he writes something no one will remember.

He's addicted to melancholy.

I only cried once when my father died.

It wasn’t when I was told he was in the hospital.

It wasn’t when I was told it was cancer in the brain.

It wasn’t when I realized it would be over soon.

It wasn’t when everyone expected me to.

When they were telling me that it was okay to cry.

When the doctors told us he would die.

Or when the priest tried explaining why.

Or when I felt all alone.

Or when no one else really understood.

Or when everyone looked at me and felt sorry.

Or when they carried his casket from the church.

Or when the hearse drove away to burn the remains.

Or when they told me “Condolences”.

Or when his sisters were crying.

Or when everyone looked at me and saw him.

Or when I realized I didn’t even know his favorite song.

Or his birthday.

Or remembered his voice.

Or how funny he was.

  It wasn’t even when I realized I didn’t really know him.

That he didn’t even know me.

  I only cried once when my father died.

Let’s run away.

 Let’s learn French and buy a bookstore in Paris.

Let’s learn Swahili and dance in Kenya.

Let’s put on winter coats and do the same on the North Pole.

And then on the South Pole.

Let’s put on swimwear and go shop in Atlantis.

Let’s put on backpacks and walk to the moon.

Let’s get lost and find El Dorado, where I’ll make you a crown of flowers.

Leave the gold, it’s too heavy to carry with us anyway.

Let’s climb a mountain and spit in the fountain of youth and the face of death.

Let’s put on wellies and go float among the stars.

Let’s bring a fishing rod to catch some starfish.

 Let’s sometimes just stay on the couch.

I swear there's a girl out there with cold, burning stars in her eyes      lost, still hoping to be found

I swear there's a world out there hungry for compassion      lost, still hoping to be found

I swear there's a girl out there who offered the world her kindness      and it swallowed her whole

I swear there's a world out there who paid her back in malice     and it swallowed her whole

I swear the girl is still out there with cold, burning stars in her eyes     the fire is still burning

I swear the world is still out there and it still deserves our kindness

Oh look another glass of red wine another sleepless night

My face, a smile plastered all over mindless social media self-promotion sheep to the organic slaughter

Clichés piling up in a dark corner

me curling up in a dark corner another cliché of a postmodern world

Another night of thinking another night of drinking

Worrying about if I am truly myself if I am true to my “self” if I am

My face

Plastered with the same stupid smile all over

Social media. School.

I wear the smile, and I wave my hands in the air like I just don’t care.

I laugh at the self-promotion the self, the stage, this here fucking narrative we’re all creating for ourselves

like we’ll ever become something real

like I’ll ever become anything.

To anyone.

What I say is:

“Yeah, I’m an artist, I see the world differently. I don’t believe in the capitalistic and self-concerned system consumerism has created in our time, and we ought to join together and break free of the constraints and live a fuller life liberated of societal demands.”

While what I mean to say is:

“Yeah, I’m an artist. I’m just not capable of performing, functioning in the real world like all the other grown-ups.”

But I can’t put that as my profile picture.

What I mean is:

“Yeah, I’m an artist. I get drunk a lot and talk about poetry, and every once in a while I write down a few sentences that sound good or look good and then I put them somewhere for no one to read hoping that one day someone will actually give a flying fuck about me and my words? And I know that there’s a million poets out there, and at least half of them are better than my plain bullshit.”

But that’s way too long for a twitter bio.

What I mean is:

“Yeah, I’m an artist. I know I should shut up and do something real with my time.”

That would make a terrible Facebook update.

What I mean is:

“I’m not special. Stop trying to make me think I am.”

  My friends want me to start taking the medication again.

A bit of news:

I recently performed my spoken word for the first time, and the above was my main piece. 

It wasn’t just holding hands.

It was holding on at the edge of a cliff. It was pulling each other from the waves. It was hanging on to a chopper           soaring high above an active volcano.

It was holding on to each other.

It was holding on to life.

It was holding on to the only thing           standing between them                                                  and                                                           the cold.

It was an autumn leaf, desperately clutching the last bit of summer,                            before its fall.