beauty in the breakdown

Written on 8-20-07.

I had a dream about you.
I wanted to paint my ceiling of a sunset
to always remind me of you
My subconscious made me cry
for us, for me,
for something my conscious self won’t allow.

I want to say…
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for those unspoken words.
I’m sorry for the spoken ones too.
I’m sorry I can’t wake up next to you.
I’m sorry that I can’t touch you again.

I miss you.
I miss you so much that it fucking hurts.
So much,
my insides are between a rock and a hard place
squeezed.

I want to cry when I hear random love and lost songs on the radio
I don’t know how I got here.
I don’t know where to begin and and where to end.

I love you.
in my own sickly masochistic way
in my own insecure tender way.
I love you.

And yes it was real.
It was so fucking real that I wish it was a dream
One that leaves you awake
One that still lingers
One that creates longing.

But to know that all it was…
was a dream
So I can let it pass.

You, it, me, us, you
were more real than my badly skinned knee
more real that my mom’s spicy sate fun soup
more real than these mosquito bites
more real than mint chocolate ice cream
more real than the sunsets that remind me of you
more real than this pain that cripples me.

Now, I’m up past the midnight hour
Working on your CD
This masochistic process is helping me deal.

I love you.
I hope to see you in my dreams tonight.
The only appropriate place.

i sleep to forget
i sleep to dream
i sleep to live
i sleep to live in my dreams
i sleep to understand myself
i sleep to see myself
i sleep to console myself
i sleep to hide myself
i sleep to runaway.

don’t be afraid that someone is reading this
quit caring what others think.
this is for you
this poem is for you.
this poem is for all those tears you couldn’t cry
this poem is for all that pain you harbor in your gut
this poem is for everything and everything.
this poem is for your mom that’s slowly dying without that kidney.
this poem is for your sister who possesses a greater heart and spirit than you will ever have
this poem is for your dad who can conquer the world with his kindness and smile
this poem is for your tragic inability to cry in front of people
this poem is for you and only for you
this poem is dedicated to your spirit.
this poem is dedicated to your unwavering hope in people
this poem is dedicated to your compassion
this poem is dedicated to the unending pain and loneliness that you feel.
this poem will cure all of that.
this poem will end it.
this poem is not a poem
this poem is just the ramblings of a inconsolable and neurotic insomniac.

but i write because it cures.
i write because it helps.
i write because it’s the only thing that ever has.
other than sleep.
sleep is just the mental runaway from yourself.
writing is the face-to-face contact with yourself.
with your emotions
you get to touch it
you get to slip your words into its messiness as you pull up sentences
in the middle of the night.

night time. the moon rises. the moon stays. the moon shines.
words seem to only come out best when the moon is watching overhead

it’s as if the emotions jumbles itself into indecipherable tangles that can only be unwound at the supervision of the moon
sentences tumble out as the jumbles uncrumbles itself
and lays it self on this page
fragmented
needing stitches to make it comprehensible
to make it real
to make it part of me

this poem
this piece
is not really a poem
or a piece
it’s more of a stream of thoughts
that can never stop

i am a nomad.
i am the runner.
i am the constellation that is not formatted and positioned correctly.
I am in motion.
I am in a
constant
consistent
perpetual
perplexing
rambling
rumbling
wondering
wandering
state.

I leave poems unfinished because
my mind
my words
cannot grasp the incompleteness of my being

Maybe because finishing poems are just like saying goodbyes.
each one a little more awkward
a little more sad
a little less desired. 

good bye
good bye
good bye