kind of like Truth

The acorn falls to the cement.
The crow lands beside it.
He places one foot on the nut, and pecks at it with his nose.
He hears distant traffic and picks the large acorn up in his small beak. He looks around. Satisfied that the traffic is far away, he places the nut down and pecks at it some more, holding it steady with his right foot.
He wants what is inside. But it will take work to get to it.
He contemplates flying up and dropping it to the concrete again. But another crow swoops in from behind and lands near him.
He picks up the acorn and flies away.
He is not ready to share this prize.
Although he holds it now, he does not even know how to access it yet himself.

Every line a measured verse

Sky that moves each step I walk
Shy I left you yet I talk
Breath that deepens, anxious less
Losing fear of meaningless
Friends with distance as it should
Leaving always saying I would
Sad about the other things
worrying less tomorrow brings
Holding truer inner sense
Relax brewing recompense
Captivating but ignored
Sallow missing unexplored
Bitter grief on nightly rounds
Crying always newer sounds
More amazed with wider eyes
Clearer answers fewer lies

17 years

I spent exactly
17 years trying to be too good
Another 17 years rebelling against that and being bad, bitter, and lost
I think I may be finally ready to look for me

Origins

Today I am on a walk my parents took with me outside of the apartment I was born in. They swaddled me up in a ton of blankets and took me out into the Chicago winter.

On that short, one block walk to the lake shore park I imagine parents who were happy?... confused?... uncertain of what to feel or what would be expected.  Their little baby, going outside for the first time, one of the first things they attempted to do together as parents.  I of course just stared up at the bare tree branches a lot, and took it all in.

My father's experience inside must have been blocked, or conflicted, or incomplete somehow, maybe in ways he didn't realize, since he was already cheating on my mom by then.

Perhaps my mom did not know yet.   Her fantasy may have prevailed against the warning signs; or perhaps evidence of the truth pushed her further into denial, dissociation.

But they walked along. They were new parents.

My parents didn't anticipate that ultraviolet rays burn even in the cold. So I got a blistering sunburn on my face, at eight weeks old.

One of the first things they attempted to do together as parents.  And the result.

My grandma gave them hell for not thinking about that later.  Psychosoma: the overly sensitive area tingling on the right side of my face, returning to that same spot in the sun.

Venn diagram

All of the pain that was done to me
All that was robbed from me, that I never learned
About loving, about living in family, and real relationships
About being a child
About being wrong
And still being loved
About struggling as a man honestly, and accepting less than perfection
All the touch I never felt
And comfort I never received
These things I never knew that I never knew
And the tears I never cried
Belong in the first circle.

All the pain I have done
And continue to do
Which was only my fault
All the love that was rushed
By my angst of aloneness
All the good love starved of presence
By my anxiety of sitting still
All the trust I have shattered
And hearts I have dropped
Pain I have caused
Sincere promises I have failed at
Excuses i've given
And demeaning of myself;
Plus a future of only the same
Because I am "not healthy enough yet for a relationship"
And thus never yet have been
Even throughout attempting bonds
I thought could meet both our needs
These fill up the second circle

And I in my tears
Am in the intersection
Seeing for the first time both
Stricken by both
Mourning both

Mourning the loss
Of a self never known, and never presented

Of the holes in my heart
I have bled onto others
Staining what I wanted to keep

Of the irresponsibility
Of so many choices I have made
For wrong reasons, or simply at the wrong time

Of a hurt that is living today
Given birth through me
That my truest intentions cannot change
Because I in this state
Can create no other.

No child,
No family,
No true love
Only pain

What I was not handed
I cannot pass on
And never will be able to of my own power


So Abba you may decide
What miracle to grant me
For I am destroyed just as I destroy
And am no more
Than the splinters at my feet

Drum-making

I am an unfinished drum.


The barrel is life; the animal skin my soul.


Til now, if you strike me, you only get empty thuds, 
because my soul has not been stretched enough 
to cover the actual shape and size of life.


God is stretching my soul into the shape 
of the life he made me to fit.

growing uncertainty

words about my father's ways
sprouting beliefs about myself
a long time trying to heal her, heal myself
by mowing down any sign of the same within me
never hearing which parts were ok
never hearing parts truly wrong
just the seed of choking vines
thriving in the dark
withering in light

but night

when I am alone
not just in bed, but inside myself
thuderclouds of worry and fear
keep me locked inside
I have no raingear

for her tears

simply water the seeds
of what I'd believed:
father that I never had
i am doomed to be;
husband she had dreamed about
I could never be.