[I]nsanity & [I]nsomnia

7:00 Sharp
and not a moment later
is when the morning starts
when that alarm goes off ringin'
and the sounds of Mufasa,
our departed king
permeate the air.
of course,
that's also when
the war starts

between me,
and myself
the subconceous
and the real

it's fierce combat, really
-when the world wants you
to do something
you feel anxious,
surrounded; afraid
and under the pressure
of the whole fucking
world
like the nazis
in the final hours
of 1946.

sure, i manage
to hold on a little longer
fifteen, thirty sometimes
fourty-five
miniutes.

depending on how many times
I hit that
snooze button
but that doesn't stop
the morning air
from receiving my presence.

I wake up,
eventually
and stare upon this fucking
world I feel,
I can never love
my stomach - restless
from last nights
cigarette and coffee
binge

then I wonder,
as I take my first sip
of morning joe
and my first sip of
death:
"why did I even
bother waking up
on this god fucksaken
mundane morning?"

but there is never an answer
I guess every morning
is a mundane morning
without a god in the sky
or an angels face to
wake up to.
maybe she could
show me
meaning.

So, i've taken a small break from the poetry; debate's been eating my time like a fat kid at Cici's... on the way home from atlanta, I managed to write ... something. I'm not sure whether it's poetry, prose, a reflective essay or a story, but shit i've never been big on labels.

without furthe ado:

I have grown terribly dissatisfied with my life, I am not who I used to be – anymore. No, something has happened to me – I feel lost, trapped and ever so fucking alone and I just want everything and everyone to be still still still. I know, I know, I have so much to live for, such a rich fulfilling life ahead of me – the only problem is – I see the future, I see my destiny – as I peer into the crystal ball of modernity, I am disheartened by the direction my boat is drifting.

Highschool, College, a Masters degree then work, work, work – until I’m a useless old fart and can’t tell the difference between living and existing. That’s what this world wants for us all, an anesthetized life – free from pain and strife: we all dream of that same place – whether you call it Oklahoma or your lover’s arms, we’re all looking for a place where everything is predictable and nothing hurts. We sail and cruise and drive through existence looking for a who, a why, a god and a how, but never do we find the answers to our petty questions, we sail and drive and cruise to someone else’s rhythm, in a direction I’m ashamed to call “progress.”

False are the idols of modernity, false are the amenities of a comfortable middle-class existence. We bust our balls to maintain the petty comforts of our lives without realizing that it is ourselves that we are slowly murdering. The house, the cars, the money, the girls – shit I’d trade it all for a taste of the real – a taste of every beautiful flavor life has to offer. But there is some repentance in it all, for I’m afraid although I see beyond the shimmering idols of modernity, I am a weak man. As much as I want escape, as much as I want to live, my weakness leaves me trapped like a butterfly caught in the tarantulas den, or an autumn leaf lost in winter winds – out of place, out of control, and increasingly – out of my fucking mind.

I don’t know what it is about me, or what’s been going on lately – everyone and everything in my life is confusing the fuck out of me, I am coming to what feels like a stand-still in my quest for meaning and I’m afraid I’m falling falling falling into darkness, into nothingness. I’m lonely, confused, and thirsty for the first drop of love, of life, of whatever is to come, but if there’s one thing I do know it is this: I have grown too full for this small cup of existence, I can no longer call this place home and for quite some time I have not been able to recognize these familiar faces - I need change that doesn’t jingle in my pockets.

I am looking for a friend, but surely in all the wrong places – I cannot find it here. This place is cold and all of the color is gone - the land is black and the clouds overhead are gray with the tears of god. But I cope, I live, I fight the good fight; Hoping that somewhere, there is someone in the world as lost confused and meaningless as myself.

We exchanged a look
as she troddled up the incline
of the top floor
of a parking garage
in some suburban neighborhood,
no different from the rest of 'em

she had jet black hair,
and plump white cheeks.
Her name was Helen,
I assumed so at least, as she looked
as all helens do, I figured
with piercing blue eyes
in which I could only see my own reflection
and pale milky skin
which was smoother than sandpaper, at the very least

Although we only exchanged but that one brief moment
between shock and awe;
that another human soul was here,
sitting on the ledge
on the seventh floor of a parking garage
overlooking the entire city
on a friday night
sculpting words
into expressions
the trademark of a poet

But this moment had to end,
as all moments do, I suppose
as she quietly creeked
to the other end of that lot
sat atop her throne, and lit a cigarette
or two
and our words danced,
although we never exchanged a word

As the city clock struck twelve
and the pidgens startled into the midnight sky
I think we both shared something
like ordered chaos
or beautiful sorrow
in my dance with destiny,
I tasted fate.