Coffee Time – Bold Roasted

Sipping upon earth grown fuel,

Attempting to regain some sense of being;

My being alive may not be a mistake,

But I’m damn skilled at making mistakes in my life.

If anyone asked,

I’d say I want to smash windows and really anything I feel is in my way;

But truth be told

I’d rather float down a river of my own tears.

Melodramatic, yes, but here’s a bit of reasoning-

When your emotions feel as though they exist light years away from your life experiences,

At least the appropriate emotions;

You eventually reach a point of confusion mixed with desperation,

Because it seems what you feel doesn’t actually matter.

I’ve reached a rather interesting point of exhaustion,

I’m basically so tired that I’m energized;

Exhausted so far past the point of fatigue,

That I can’t help but need activity.

Stimuli is key,

Rest is both foreign & futile.

Ground me coarsely until there’s little remnants,

Bathe my ashes in the water,

That I may be poured out as a roast stronger than I could ever see myself as.


Nothing to Show

Fractured skulls and broken equilibriums,

Polished shoes & furrowed brows.

Thankless & endless hours of work,

Loud & constant criticism;

Irrelevancy & apathy are spreading.

Desiring to talk things out,

Yet always coming up short on words;

Never actually heard,

Just violated and invaded.

Privacy is nonexistent.

Getting by is something to feel guilty about,

Succeeding is nearly impossible;

Lacking reason is encouraged,

Realism is synonymous with pessimism.

For the minds eye is believed to be sewn shut,

When it has only blinked after being blind for so long.

Mind is frozen. Body is withdrawn. Rest is needed but hard to secure.


Someone I’m Not

How is it,

So many people assume an identity upon others

when typically they don’t even have security in who they are?

Why must ones tasks and/or role define them,

As if ones personhood can be summarized in a job description?

For too long now,

I’ve wanted to smash the mirror every time I have to see my face;

Just because of some petty insecurities,

But because I didn’t really know my name.

I was wondering who was the stranger looking at me.

So I finally start living day to day and somewhat aware of my identity,

And then like a flood that turns cars into pebbles;

The assumptions of others bury me like a pile of skulls on a war field.

And as I claw my fingers through blood stained clay and mud,

My body aches but I’m more determined than ever.

I may be exhausted but this isn’t the end.

I’m not looking for apologies or something to mend,

I will cut your box in pieces before you even think about putting me in.

I’m the vigilante who picked the locked even after they threw away the key.

I don’t even necessarily expect justice,

But I’ll welcome it if it comes.

I’m just trying to move on,

But I’m not sure yet about where to go.


Tears Running Down the Road

As I step onto the sidewalk,

My senses are as engaged as they are dulled.

My feet feel the path below them,

My mind is empty and unwilling to give a destination though.

But nonetheless,

I walk.

Onward to somewhere called nowhere,

That is until I’m



I don’t know yet, but “There” is where I’ll get to eventually.

Now back “here”,

I stand waiting for the enlightened one to signal me;

For the hand has faded from my point of view,

And now I move on to my destination still unknown.

Scaling hills that feel comparable to mountains,

And streets that are practically an open time capsule for the Earth’s constant motion.

My vision becomes blurred.

A dampness suddenly takes form,

And everything I can’t say becomes something tangible.

I cry.

Patiently and yet violently,

The tears flow very visibly;

Yet in order that I may conceal them from everyone else,

My feet are moving faster.

Almost like my body is trying move faster than me,

As If I’m trying to separate my shadow from my body.

As I walk through my door,

Breathing heavily with my feet in pain;

I’m still crying.

And while I’m not happy,

I’m not angry either.

I’m released.


Thrown Against the Wall

I could’ve sworn I was excited,

Or at least I was convinced that I was trying to be “excited”.

Whatever that means.

I find that I’m constantly battling cynicism,

But usually my passions are never effected.

But in the past years,

Even my passions have suddenly become quieter than the cynicism yelling in my ears.

Suddenly the tenor of Pavoratti is akin to this cynicism

that is choking the life from any passion I have.

And there I am:

Lying on my apartment floor,

exhausted from stress,

Angry about being disillusioned.

Ultimately, I’m reminded of the other things stressing me out

Only making me want to stay on the floor;

But I get up

and no I’m not fine.

But the only way I can get through the next hour or so, is by saying that I’m fine if someone asks.

Am I lying?

To a degree, yes.

But I’m more trying to silence this voice always telling me that nothing is going to work out.

I hate to say it, but I definitely have in ways resolved to faking it in order to make it.

But I want both stop and start again anew by saying:

I’m done.

Some things will in fact, not work out.

But some will, they will actually at times work out better than I could ever fathom.

From small and more temporal things,

To important and at times tangible significant decisions.

In a weird way, we wouldn’t have problems in life if weren’t able to find solutions.

The only reason problems exist at all,

Is because we as humanity are masters of complaining and having completely short sighted perspective!

May we no longer use our eyes exclusively for decoration,

But may they be used to have vision and find direction.