Wednesday, December 4, 2013

A Little Truth (This Is Not a Love Poem)

I'm going to let this one breathe on it's own...

A Little Truth (This Is Not a Love Poem)

This is not a love poem.
This is a truth poem.
This is a poem about how I think.
How I feel.
How I am.
This is a truth poem about it all.
The truth about how when we started talking I wasn't looking for anything.
Not anything heavy.
Not anything like... you know?
A relationship.
Friendship absolutely.
When you get along you get along.
But the rest?
Well you know?
Then a funny thing happened.
I got excited about talking to you.
Even more about seeing you.
Every time I'd get either my my heart would...
Wait, no.
I mean to say that the stars...
What I'm trying to say is birds sing...
No. Fuck the flowery poetics!
What I really mean to say is this:
I fucking love you.
That the truth of this poem,
The truth behind all compliments,
The fact that what I say only puts to words what is there.
It's not just how I see you.
It's you.
This still isn't a love poem.
It's a truth poem.
A truth poem about impact.
The truth of two people.
Affect, affection, cause and effect.
That sometimes life does throw a break.
That collisions aren't always damaging.
The truth that I know what I've got now.
What I'm capable of.
The truth of what you are.
Not just to me, but what you really are.
For all of it, in no small way.
I love you.
And that,
That is the truth.
This is the truth.
This is still not a love poem.

Sunday, December 1, 2013

Mental Health Trilogy: Part Three - Identity

Finally, I'm posting part three. This one was considerably harder to write than the other two. On many levels, I honestly have no idea why. On some levels I do. I believe we're all looking for ourselves. That search will always run next to and bump heads with the perceptions of others and that influence on our lives. As selfish as it may sound, but really isn't; at the beginning and end of every day, a person's main priority has to be him or herself. That's a struggle. This is a piece of mine. With that, I now know why this was hard to write. That said, I think it's time to stop the intro, and get to the poem... 

Me Vs. Matt

I am everything everyone says I am
Kind, good, funny, giving, laid back, calm, closed off, walled, emotionally unavailable, an asshole. 
At one point I was trying to figure this out
Trying to find out which parts of that list are true.
Fact, I'm all of those things.
And then some. 
Trouble is people so often see what they want.
They see this goofy and friendly guy
This guy that's always laid back
So laid back that he isn't going with the flow at all.
So laid back he IS the flow.
But wait a minute!
I'm having a bad day actually. 
Some shit has been piling up on me...
and I'm... 
Oh, sorry. Nevermind.
I forgot I've got this idea to live up to...
But I've got a situation
I'm in this fight here
It's me against Matt
I guess you could say it's a fight for my life.
A fight that needed to happen ages ago. 
(I swear I heard the round 1 bell)
See, I am all of those good things.
That's not even a choice.
Just who I am.
Like a twofer, the rest comes with that though. 
I can be down
I can be hurt
I can...
Aren't you? 
Guess what though?
I'm not always going to be OK.
Not always going to be good with giving and giving
Giving with no acknowledgement
No seeing that I can have a shitty day too
That when that happens, I might not be happy about it.
That when the shit hits the fan,
When my day is rocked, 
That it might carry the same weight as a good day. 
That it might even be heavier.
I feel everything.
Honestly, sincerely, wholly.
It's tricky, some don't want to believe that. 
Because when they do, it's accepting I may need help too. 
And God fucking forbid another person is part of why I hurt.
It's duel punishment for that.
How dare I be upset or hurt by that? 
"Until you feel better, I'll lay low Matt."
I had no interest in solving shit anyway. 
Don't worry, the happy goof will move on.
Because I forgive so quickly.
Forgetting never.
Even when details can't be remembered,
My heart keeps the tab.
Right there is where my reasons live.
The brick layers.
The architects.
The wall gets built there. 
No matter how out going.
How friendly.
How caring.
How loving.
How giving.
How warm I am.
These bricks are thick.
So fucking thick.
So fucking thick I can't see doors or windows. 
They're in there though.
The way is through some Temple of Doom,
Booby traps and all for anyone that comes in.
Myself included.
The heart beats on.
The heart beats on.
I know these walls aren't forever. 
I know they aren't.
I hope... 
I also know how I'm seen -
Goofy, kind, smart, laid back, sensitive, giving, loving...
I know what I hide -
Anxiety, sadness, hurt, scarring, dents, damage, insecurities...
Who I am is not a choice.
I'm everything everyone sees me as. 
And everything unseen too.
This is who I am.
If I'm up.
If I'm down.
There's a ton to have. 
Tons more to learn.
Tons more to learn.

This is who I am. 

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Mental Health Trilogy: Part Two - Anxiety

This poem is almost self explanatory. But I'm going to beat this dead horse anyway. I live with anxiety. Lots of it. Most people don't know that. That said, I'm discovering myself through it. What my triggers are and what ways to cope when I don't see it coming. This was one of my coping mechanisms.

Everyday Anxious

"How are you?"
"I'm good. You?"
That's how we all want it to go.
So we can move through a day without issue.
Or quote unquote, DRAMA.
Without acknowledging the stress we all know is there.
At some point, that elephant might get the hint and just go away.
No one wants a real answer to those questions.
No one.
No one wants me to answer the, "how are you?" with what's really up.
"Hi, how are you?"
"Ah, you know? I'm exhausted. I've been working a lot. Drinking more. Sleeping like shit. And when I do finally sleep I'm shaken awake by a fucked up dream or anxiety. Or both. And when I'm awake for the day, I can't stop moving. When I do stop moving, I shake. A lot. With or without caffeine. On the brink of tears at minimum. Though most likely there's an anxiety attack right around the corner. So yeah, I'm good."
That answer will always get one of a few responses.
Most often a "there there" or a "chin up buddy!"
Or worse, the other person turns it into a bad day pissing contest.
No matter what.
All dismissive.
All denial.
All blowing past the idea that if I, or anyone, actually answered like that.
With the truth of how I really feel in my day to day.
It would be an obvious need to legitimately cry for help.
That I'm struggling to even just. Get. By.
So it comes back to this:
"Hi! How are you!?"
"I'm fine! Thanks for asking!"

Mental Health Trilogy: Part One - Alcohol

This poem came from a darker place than many of my poems do. It needed to. I like the biting sarcasm in this. I like that I let myself explore this thought. And I like how this still feels like poetry. This wasn't intended to be part of anything at all. It was going to stand alone as a down and bitter moment. As it turns out, I've got more.

How We Get Along

I'm not sleeping right.
I'm not eating right.
I'm drinking.
No, I'm not missing a word.
That was intentional.
As intentional as every sip of every drink that has crossed my lips.
Do I have demons? I do.
I drink my demons and 99% of the time I enjoy every, single, fucking drop.
All of them. In bottles, cans, glasses and by the occasional shot.
All of them.
Do I want to stop?
I have a few jokes lined up for why I don't.
And there's a truth in every joke.
So that's what's up.
Thanks for asking.
Me and my demons are getting along just fine.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

Spitting Poetry

I wrote this in a single draft, it just flowed from my head, to my fingers, to paper. Or, more accurately, my phone, since the poem caught me unarmed. Without pen and paper. That said, and because of the freestyle/stream of concious nature of the poem, I'm proud of this one...

I'll keep spitting poetry
 Spitting poetry because life shows no symmetry
 No balance to hold for stability
Realized I have to make my own gravity
 Been knocked down
Dragged down
 Shots kept coming even when I was on the ground
No time to make my face frown
No choice I have to get back up
I haven't lived life or given enough
 There's a catch, a snag, struggle
Being bulletproof comes with a price
Stings like hell though spared my life
That's what I take
Take, take, take
For what or who's sake?
 I don't know
 On I go
Shots fired and I take them
 No choice about it, no chance to run
Not even sure who's hand holds that gun
No matter what, I'll live
I've got a love and a life to give.
 I'm spitting poetry
Spitting poetry to make my own symmetry
My own stability
 My own gravity
Spitting poetry