Perfect

I finally understand why you hate it

The overzealous discipline

The taking it too seriously

The endless toil

The futile pursuit

All in the name of "perfect"

I loved it for a long time

I sought until I could not see

I ran until I could not stand

I sang until I could not speak

Poured everything I had

Into everything I did

And painted perfect pictures of everything I wanted

Even of you

All the things that worked mattered

All the things that didn't didn't

Beautiful moments engraved

Painful moments erased

And I ran after that perfect image of you endlessly never getting any closer but always believing I could one day lay next to her and watch the clouds

Until I could not

I wish it had been earlier

I had known you earlier

I had believed you earlier

I had tried to fix this earlier

I hate it too now

But it's too late to stop trying

So I am stuck chasing you and chasing this abstract idea

Pouring everything into nothing

Never to be happy

So used to the perfection in my mind that nothing in this imperfect world could ever hope to make staying in it at all worthwhile

So if you find my body

Sleeping below an imperfectly tied knot

Wincing at imperfectly drawn lines

Crying by an imperfectly pulled trigger

Bury me anyway

And write on my gravestone:

I was not perfect

And neither are you

And I guess that

is ok

A Light in the Darkness

There is a reason we call the addictions and neuroses and insecurities that constantly haunt us our "demons." Though more a concept than a being, the Devil is very real. He even has a name: Lucifer, Bringer of Light. When you look the Devil in the face, as we are often forced to, he casts light into the darkness around you. And make no mistake, a light in the darkness is only a blessing when its director has your best interest in mind.

1. Nobody is afraid of the dark, they are afraid of the uncertainties which it conceals. Carefully selected lights illuminate those parts of that amalgam which we truly fear. Every worst case scenario that flashes through our minds to prevent action has been carefully staged to appear in full light.
2. The light at the end of the tunnel is the universal euphemism for hope in times of despair. Hope, however, is not always a good thing. Sometimes that light of how is an oncoming train ready to run us down. And so false hope is the lights left on just too long at the tragic end of the first act. 
3. Walking in the dead of night with only a flashlight to guide us, our vision is severely constricted. Every snap of a twig or rustle of bramble outside that small circle of clarity inspires worry and apprehension. And so the anxiety that keeps us ever on our toes is the lone spotlight focused center stage, making the surroundings seem so much darker

Knowing the uselessness of darkness, the Devil uses light to bring humanity to its knees. And while we lay there wretched and broken, one last spotlight shines onto the scene. In full light the stage is set for the final blaze of glory  

a knife

a gun

a rope

a balcony

a lake

a bottle

a syringe

And amidst this whole charade we never realized who was holding the flashlight, standing in the background, pushing us ever closer to the precipice, and chuckling as we stumbled over the edge. 

The Devil is not real 

But we are

L'appel du Vide

The end begins quickly
You know it will happen
But you do not prepare
So the end begins quickly

You grab a piece of paper
You smile for the camera
You walk out into the end
So the end begins quickly

so the
slow fade
begins

You sit and reflect on this whole thing
but realize that the memories begin fading
When the end begins quickly

You stand and rejoice with friends
but realize that this is all just a slow goodbye
as the slow fade begins

In the dead of night
You realize you
don't
want
this

You
can not will not must not
accept it

fuck no

In the dead of night
Take the wheel
Get on One at two AM
Stare down the straightaway
Hit the asphalt with your right foot
RUN GOD DAMN IT

You fly north
Everything is the same
The ocean to your left
The mountains to your right
One stretching ahead of you

You blink quickly
Everything is different
vast landscapes flying past faster than light cast in front of the One thing that lasts

The One thing leading you away
the One thing keeping you moving
the One thing filling your lungs
the One thing beating your heart
The One thing ending your-
slow fade

You can't fight this One
no stopping the slow fade
so simply speed it up

speed up
no stopping
speed up
speed up
RUN FASTER

Hey you
What are you running from?
run faster
Hey you
Where are you going so quickly?
speed up

Hey you
Why are you running?
run faster

Hey you
speed up
Hey-
run faster
STOP

don't

just close your eyes
turn the wheel left



fall into the void


_________________________________________________________________________________

A little bit of a footnote in case this seemed confusing because of a reference not everyone might recognize. "One" is kind of a persona or speaker in this poem, but it refers to a highway, specifically California State Route 1, pictured below.

Salt and Iron

I opened the door.
I should have known you would be there. It was a Monday morning in January. The day after your birthday. I didn't want to bother you but I had to eventually.
I sat down next to you.
I looked at you while you just lay there. But I couldn't see you for long. Your image became blurry. I shut my eyes as drop by drop salt met iron.
I breathed a heavy sigh.
I remembered how you talked almost every day about being there. I only ever half believed you. You scared me sometimes. I didn't think I really had to be afraid.
I brushed your hair out of your eyes.
I used to call you kiddo all the time. It was our cute little term of endearment for each other. You really were just a kid. Of all people a kid belongs there the least.
I bent over and gently kissed your forehead.
I had to convince you of a lot of things. That you were beautiful, that I loved you. You never really believed me. You believed you didn't deserve any of this.
I embrace you for the la-



Wait.



In your hand.
I know immediately what it is. The pen with which you wrote your final message to me. I tear it from your fingers and throw it as far from us as I possibly can. I burn with rage. Rage at you for doing this. Rage at me for letting it happen. Rage at love for not being enough. Rage at the world for hurting you this way. Rage at that pen for making this even a possibility. I rage rage rage rage rage against the dying of the light.

The dying of your light. Your already dead light. Your light that had been dead for so long but I didn't notice until now. Or I did and couldn't admit it. 

I have beaten the room until I am senseless. My fists cannot unclench, iron drips from my knuckles. My eyes cannot open, salt burns down my face. There is no more rage, only your dead light and mine.
I go and pick up your pen from the corner of the room
I want to go with you, to chase after you. I want to lie beside you and draw the same lines on my skin you did. I settle for a little less. Perpendicular lines that last forever, to remind me of what I could never forget anyway. 


My life joins with yours one final time, then I open the drain, and watch the last of you flow away from me.