Loneliness.

 

 

I.

Loneliness to me is going out into the woods on a cold winter night,

even though it’s April.

 

Seeing the black night and dancing drunkenly to the beat of your dress shoes against the sand, the dirt road,

that no one travels.

 

To see the stars and to see the airplanes as stars

too. For one can’t tell the difference from

that far point of view.

 

Loneliness feels like a lover, singing songs and never looking at you. Each step is calculated to be the furthest

away from you.

 

Each step hurts more and more, the small crowd of those 15 peers you should know, but don’t, claps and you

clap whilst holding a static electric heart.

 

Loneliness is when the breeze of that black night flows

through your chest and out the other end. No, it is not. It is when you feel as if

 

a breeze could flow right through. But your heart

is much too murky to let anything through and so

you sing songs that you forget.

 

Yet put back in.

 

After each line the trees weep and the grass claps and

the mouth spews words to be forgotten. A distant somber melody

in the abyss.

 

Repairing with the golden thread from the land of light. Editing the memory to drive away delight.

 

The abyss. Loneliness feels like the abyss.  Inside your heart eating, gnawing,

chopping down the

wood of your

chest so,

your

heart

can get

some rest

and your eyes cry

like the trees swinging that distant shaking:

lullaby tune. And they start to mend scars that you carry

 

from the lines of song forgotten in the wind.

 

But you’ve stabbed yourself too many

times unknowingly. And no doctor is in

sight.

 

For future sight is hard too see.

 

No doctor is here to see you now. The only one person

who can shift the tide is you–

one– crushed by the weight

 

I am here… if only you could listen.

 

of the world. One must push up despite the world on

their back and breaking what feels like every

blood cell in the body.

 

One must do what Atlas never could.

 

To finally find at last, after you’ve pushed past,

pushed up, and put yourself together:

you can carry on with a mask

 

You’ll have to tear it off later. I already have.

 

and an internal string that grows ever tougher

and yet at the same time ever

raw.

 

The string will break. And that’s okay.

 

The sky shall fall if Atlas leaves his post.

 

God will catch the sky for you Atlas.

 

The stick won’t hold for long.

 

 

Am.

Then to not edit, but not yet revise, and think past, the present

future. To ripe apart the mask and repair with golden threads,

to be your own doctor, getting wed the plates of the self

torn apart with time. And to show it to

 

the reader. To reserve this poem for you, the viewer:

who caused this poem to shine a light upon my future

 

now a past forgotten, yet so close ever still.

 

from a distant past. Oh might as well say when and where, (sorry but its gone)

I won’t last

 

(Here it is: past when and where I don't reminisce)

 

without you, Oh! Courageous Love who hurts my heart if we are

to drift apart. The day I watched your show, and sat

 

in the front row

I didn’t know

how to go

 

about loving you

and what to do

so I ran away

 

Pretty constant pattern. Running away.

And figmented Atlas says:

 

One must run towards the light.

 

I didn’t stay

and so I say

I’ve broken through

 

Have I touched you too?

Is this true?

What am I to do?

 

Or are Twin Flames a lie?

A relic

of a long forgotten lullaby?

 

I’d like to believe it’s true. That is why I am doing what I always do.

 

Being stupid. Being silly. Being naive. Being

 

unscientific. Not following what I am capable of doing. Not calculating each step, each movement, each thought, each action, to get me towards my goal of love.

Because what fun is love if its under your control?

 

Yet, that and this too,

I suppose,

is calculated.

 

I cannot escape:

the monster,

I’ve created.

 

 

Pm.

Oh. It is there if you want to know.

It happened. And it almost happened again. According to my metric it would be a setback, but it feels different. My body knows. My spirit knows. That I havent been setback I’ve been set free. My life is mine to live and I’ve reclaimed my choice. Even in the face of adversity. Even with all holes unplugged. Even with sin starting me straight in the face. I walk away. This is me. This is who I am now. There is no other path. There is no other road. This is the only road.

I’ve reclaimed my inner Hercules, been reinstated as a god. A master of my own fate, I am in control of the choices I make, and I won’t in the truest sense, make that choice again. It’s said that there are no mistakes but I’ve learned from my lesson. I’m telling this to you now to illuminate the shame within. The Devil thrives in darkness, sin grows from being unsaid. However the

 

 

    

Devil exists

I guarantee you this:

I will take away its power,

shift it away from bliss,

and put it into love now

and in pursuit of further happiness.

 

 

Amen.

           

 

 

This is dangerous. I know.

This is risky. It is so.

 

But what fun is life if it is under your control?

 

 

I trust you to

know.

 

 

II.

Time, lines, words: flowing

Read the poem from the start

to the end and it won't make much sense.

 

Read from new beginning.

 

Loneliness to me is

looking down

not up.