Illusions

I found this passage of poetry in a little notebook I carry in my back pocket. I wrote it awhile ago and had forgotten it.

Self esteem crippled
By illusions claiming:

     Success lies in status
     Worth lies in wealth
     Beauty lies in body
     Materials define existence

Respawn

Here's a gem I discovered whilst organizing the 300+ documents on my computer. I got my Mac back in 8th grade and have never sorted anything. So that's what I'm doing tonight. This very short piece could possibly be lengthened, but this is what it is right now. I wrote it for a Creative Writing class senior year for a "great first line" project.

The first time I died was quite uneventful as far as I know. It was almost disappointing. A let down. I’d always imagined going out in a blaze of glory or down in flames. Something epic. Not like this; Alone, asleep, not even given a fighting chance. I was young, this wasn’t my time, it couldn’t be right. Yet it was. I laid my head down on my pillow at 11:26 p.m. on July 18th and lost my life hours later.

The air was cool that night and I kept a window open near my bed to feel the ocean breezes rolling in from the coast, stealthily through the darkness. A dog barked in the distance as I removed my shirt and hit the lights. Laying down, I closed my eyes to block the digital green light emanating from my alarm clock. I wished I would have had ear plugs that night. The thin walls in my apartment complex let through the fighting and arguing going on next door. It was a normal occurrence, but this night it dragged on more than usual. I put my mind in a different place, replaying the day in my head. Before I knew it, I was asleep.

The next thing I knew was nothing. Bleak void permeated the contours of my subconscious while the more awake part of me fixated itself upon a wall. Recognition lightly tapped on my skull, telling me I knew where I was. A sudden flashing of blue light caught my attention and I slowly turned, beholding the squad cars parked in the street.

“What the hell is going on...” My inner voice resounded as if speaking into a cave. Like a robot, my legs carried my body towards the open door of the apartment building. People rushed in and out, talking on phones, scribbling notes, or crying. Some of them were police. Some of them seemed confused. None of them looked at me as I approached and when I saw an open path, I entered the building. An unseen subtlety called me to ascend the stairs. Stairs that I’d climbed many times before... but it seemed like an eternity ago. Vague memories transcended the halls and corridors I passed through. It was like swimming through murky water with my eyes open. The door to my room was gaping open, and people were standing inside. I was confused as to why so many people were inside my living space. I suddenly felt as if I came to life, words moving from my lungs and out my mouth.

“Hey! What’s everyone doing in here?” I shouted, demanding an answer. A man turned around, I thought to reply to me. However, he just walked passed me, not even acknowledging my existence. Becoming annoyed, I stomped into my house and noticed that most of the people were in the bedroom. I headed there, ready to let loose a firestorm of anger and frustration, when I noticed something on the bed. Something... or someone... Then a man began talking.

“The victim was penetrated through the right side of his throat with a 9 mm bullet that came through the opposite wall. It seems that the couple in the other room was having a fight and the woman finally couldn’t take it. She fired several rounds at her partner, hitting him only in the leg. Unfortunately one of them came through the wall.”

And so here I am. Here. Still. Living? Dead? Neither. I am nobody anymore.

Anxious Inhibition

This poem compares the social anxiety I feel to butterflies coming to life inside of me. I started writing this during the summer, but its message and meaning is seen most in school settings when I'm around peers I don't know very well. It's crippling, uncontrollable, and I don't know how or why it has developed since being in college.

Flapping wings

Insects sing

Cocoons bring

Monarch king

Newborn birth

Surrounding girth

Outside dirt

Beneath shirt

Hatching eggs

Shaking legs

Patience begs

Irritation segues

Sudden commotion

Rushing ocean

Explosive emotion

Incomplete quotient

Blood letting

Exterior shedding

Internal fretting

Social setting

Amplified intuition

Lack restriction

Stressful condition

Anxious inhibition

A Fresh Mindset

I love food.

“Unfortunately,” says my out of shape body.

Let’s be honest. Food is delicious. I don’t like making assumptions or “speaking for everyone” without their consent, but seriously, everyone loves food. The majority of America, specifically, has surplus food and can enjoy it. They don’t have to scrounge around for it to survive. While most people enjoy consuming food, not everyone enjoys making it. Not everyone knows how to make it.

I didn’t grow up cooking or baking or even caring about doing kitchen stuff. I’ve never been sexist about it, either. As a kid I’d always see my dad doing things in the kitchen. He typically did the baking, while my mom did more of the cooking. I don’t know when I got involved with culinary activities, but whenever it started, I was hooked.

I remember getting on a cooking spree back while taking an Independent Living class in high school. We learned how to make stir fry, gravy, cookies, and all kinds of wonderful things. At some point, late on a Friday night, I decided to make an egg souffle. I’d been told over and over that souffles were difficult to make. But some part of me longed to do it. I’d never made a souffle before, but I whipped out a recipe book, acquired the ingredients, and started right in. It was a huge success and went much better than I’d anticipated. Something inside me wanted to accomplish making that souffle. Perhaps it was because I kept hearing how hard it was to make. Perhaps I thought an egg souffle sounded delicious at that moment. But mostly, I think I did it because of the voice in my head that makes me do stuff I care about.

I attribute that inner desire to the same unseen force that drives me to write, make music, and engage other creative outlets. When I see something that intrigues me, I want to do it too. I love reading. So, I write poetry and stories. I love music. So I taught myself to play guitar. I love food, so I cook.

I guess when I want to create something I’m passionate enough about, I just do it. I don’t ask any questions. It’s something I must do. That isn’t meant to sound like a braggy little shit, but it’s true. Other people get hyped about cleaning or numbers or other crap that I don’t do. But I’ve found that trying my hand at piano or homemade alfredo sauce is more than learning the skill. And being comfortable in the kitchen is more than making food. It’s about confidence. It’s about jumping into something with the possibility of it absolutely flopping.

When I’m cooking something new, it’s like the front part of my brain already sees the finished product. It doesn’t believe in failure. It doesn’t consider quitting. It doesn’t ask why I started. Then there’s a tiny part in the back of my head that reminds me things could fall apart, but I keep him quiet.

I’m learning to implement this mindset away from the stove too: the ability to walk headlong into something thinking only about success. My negative talking and doubt and fear and worry have been more damaging than I could have imagined. Here I am, falling face first into something new or nothing at all. Gallup is done. Medication has begun. I’m trying hard to save sinking grades. I’m fighting to shake the devil’s foothold. Somehow things feel upside down, but something better is utterly, undoubtedly in progress.

Give

Give me storm clouds
Give me snow
Let me have the willingness to grow

Give me a chilly wind
Give me falling leaves
Let me hear crunching beneath my feet

Give me hot coffee
Give me just a hug
Let me hold you and it will be enough

Give me simple pleasures
Give me a peaceful death
Let me love each day, each breath

Safe Haven

It feels like nowadays I always have a lot to say all the time. There's so much running through my head. Questions, concerns, worries, ideas, hopes, and all that crap. Of course there are the stressors, as I mentioned and discussed, but I think I should address and put another issue out there.

As my blog blatantly displays, I've struggled with depression since high school. This summer I started seeking counseling for it because it has grown into a bigger, badder storm cloud this past year. And now in the past month, everything has felt so monstrous - the stress, the depression, the unknowns - that it has been affecting my routines. Keeping me from work, class, and even enjoying time with friends.

I've been talking with my counselor for some time about this and what to do about it. If you've ever seen a counselor/therapist and begin making progress, you realize that a single one hour session per week never feels like enough. Every week I look forward to Fridays. First of all, it's Friday, duh. Secondly though, my time with Dr. Brown is usually helpful and I come away feeling like I accomplished something.

As my mental rain cloud has worsened, and kept me from work and school, friends and family have recommended I think about medication. Of course, they don't want me to rely on such things. And I don't wish to be placed on meds. But if it's between me feeling this dark empty dread all day long and taking a pill to assist my brain in feeling better, I'll go with the latter.

I talked to my counselor and asked if he thought it'd be wise to see a psychiatrist. He explained his philosophy on meds and when he felt people should seek medicinal assistance.

"If a patient's condition is causing their lives to fall apart, losing job, failing school, losing friends and family, it might be time for some pills. The one exception I make is if a person's depression has hung on so long and it has worn a patient down because of its longevity." He asked me if any of this sounded applicable.

I related to the depression hanging on for a long time. The first part, I somewhat understood what he was saying. I knew that I needed to bleed out any honesty that I hadn't yet revealed.

"I can't keep going through each day dreading each moment I'm alive. Which is what I've been feeling. I sit at work boxed into a building, boxed into a cubicle, stuck inside a phone talking to people. I feel like I'm just going to explode. I'm on the brink all the time."

Something about what I said hadn't come through in previous sessions. I told him how when I come in for counseling, I feels like a wall immediately comes up in my mind. It blocks out all the things I planned on talking about and wanted to say. We discussed about how it's normal to have that mental barrier even though I feel comfortable being open and honest. My body and mind just don't agree with me, I guess. At the end of the session, Dr. Brown handed me a card referring me to a psychiatrist to seek further help for depression as well as ADD. I have an appointment on Wednesday.

Last night I dreamed that I got put on medication and it caused me to see the devil. I think a part of me is nervous. The other part is hopeful that maybe I'll get the help I need to function better.

As of now, I'm focusing on helping CVA with their play. I think it's healthy for me. I need to do it. I don't know what else to do. I didn't work much last week, not yesterday, and not today. I feel like I'm free falling out of everything normal and stable. The medications will not be my answers. I keep looking to Jesus. He and I talk, not enough maybe, but something is happening. I think He's pulling me to where I need to be. Somehow things are working out. I feel them. Maybe that safe place isn't working at Gallup or going to Union or living in Lincoln. What I do know is that He wants me to live and not to die. Death isn't my safe haven like I sometimes think it is.

Pray for me if you think of it. Thank you to all my readers, my friends, family, and adults that have rallied around me these past few weeks.

Stressors

I've kept busy writing, though not on my blog obviously. Random pieces of poetry and song lyrics flow abundantly, but they haven't turned into a lot of completed products. I'm in an editing class where we write and edit our peers' work. We've all written articles for either Guide or Insight magazine. Now we're working on writing, editing, and designing the February edition of Outlook magazine. It's pretty exciting. Unfortunately, my dumb ass slept through the class where we decide who writes about what topics. The topic I suggested in a previous class was taken from me and I got stuck with a topic that another student threw out there. "Marketing the Church". Tis far from my topic on how to spiritually relate to left brained scientifically minded individuals. But whatever.

I'm also a writer for the ClockTower at Union. I'm one of two "on campus" writers. Basically I'm supposed to interview people and write about the interview. Not my strong point. At all. Why. Did. I. Sign. Up. For. This. I ask myself this every single day. This is one of the big stressors in my life and I'm considering quitting because it's taking such a toll on my mental wellbeing. Which doesn't need assistance to be negative. The big issue for me is that I don't do these articles well. Partly because I have to interview people and I don't thrive with people. Since beginning college, I’ve developed some sort of social anxiety. It drives me nuts. Also, when I do conduct decent interviews, the word limit is 350, which causes me to cut many of the transitions that make the writing flow smoothly.

The ClockTower is published every week and because I can't dedicate long periods of time to working on it, the work suffers, and I worry that it represents me poorly. Aside from the articles themselves, I'm not fond of my editor. There have been problems in communication, disappointing editing work, and other small things that have built up unhealthily in my mind. I had a dream last night with him in it and I was extremely angry and might have even attacked or killed him (0.o). That's either really bad, or I'm just super passionate about my writing. I'd like to believe the latter.

However, I did have a productive talk with my editor and we hashed out that my writing style is quite different from reporting/journalism writing. He explained that that’s why some of the editing work has appeared shoddy. I understood and came to terms with some of the things we discussed. Once again, I was reminded that holding onto my frustration and angst isn’t healthy. Like Noah Gundersen says, “hatred/anger is a sharp knife held by the blade.” So true. I walked out of the newspaper office, conflicted. They were the same feelings I felt when I wanted to spill hot coffee on my McDonald’s manager and we ended up reaching resolution.

Another stressor has been my job. Perhaps I dislike my job because I dislike other areas of my life. But sometimes I wonder why I’m doing this work. I know I’m not at a stage in life where I can pick and choose what I want to do, but there are days that I absolutely dread walking into the building. The idea of going to work -sitting in a cubicle and making calls for hours- grows into a big steel ball inside my chest. It pulls everything inside me down farther. It has even yanked out tears.

Then there are my school finances. It feels like I work quite a bit, though it’s only about twenty hours a week. But, that money still doesn’t come near enough to cover monthly school payments along with phone and car insurance. Holy hell. If money problems come up in my mind, it’s a huge stress. Something else to consider; My spending habits are very sad. If I had all the money I’ve ever spent on pop, coffee, and fast food, I’d... have a lot of money.

So there are the things punching my brain on a regular basis.

When In Doubt, Blog It Out

Readers, it has been over three months since I've posted. What da hell. My apologies, again. It seems I spend more time apologizing than actually putting out content. But such is life. Anyways, I've got some things running around in my head and I feel the need to pin them down on paper, if you will. Also, Janelle Brassuel (sp?) saw me in church this Sabbath and said she'd checked my blog this past week and there were no new posts. So this one's for you, Janelle.

Last time we talked, I was in Estes Park, trying to hammer out a novel. It's crazy, but I actually believed that over the summer, I would write a rough draft for my book. I want to slap my past self and tell him the things I know now. And I'm sure that my future self wants to slap present me and shake me awake to the things I'm missing right now.

Since I last posted, it feels like a lot has happened. I've sought counseling for my depression and for some general life guidance. It has been helpful, and I sense progress, however, going once a week for an hour feels like such little time. Plus, with rescheduling and me sleeping in on occasion, time is cut even shorter. One interesting thing I've been told to do is to monitor the things I feel. I'm usually pretty aware of the things I feel, but he encouraged me to continue examining and wondering why I feel the things I do. He gave me this "feeling wheel", which you can see here: http://www.wecarewelistenwehelp.com/images/370_Feelings-Wheel-Color.jpg

I took the copy he gave me and colored in properly and hung it on my bathroom door to keep me thinking about the things I'm thinking and feeling. My counselor told me that there are sections of the feeling wheel that we're more accustomed and used to, and some that aren't as normal and comfortable to feel. I tend to fall into the upper three categories. I mostly experience the Sad and Scared sections with Sad being the dominant one of the two. There's also some Mad mixed in here and there. I've noticed that I feel a lot more anger than I used to ever feel. Just today, I had a mini meltdown and took a sledgehammer to my rotten Jack O Lantern.

On the bottom part of the wheel, I feel the Peaceful emotions most. Next is Joyful, and last of all is Powerful. I’m not sure why I don’t experience the Powerful emotions, but I think it’s linked to a low self-esteem or something like that.

I've been meaning to make a list of all the stressors in my life. Just to write them out and have them in front of me. Once I get them written out, I’ll probably put them here on my blog. My hope is that by viewing them, I can start to resolve them or learn to deal with them healthily in order to reduce the strains I feel.

Anyways, today I just needed an outlet and I remembered my dear old blog, so here I am. Writing once again. I hope to post once a week at least, but I cannot make any promises. I do know that I have my next post in the making now, though. Perhaps I’ll get some poetry put up, or maybe some lyrics. And maybe I’ll fall off the grid again. You just never know.

Appreciation and Whatnot

Again, I want to thank you all for sticking it out with me during the long dry spell of no posting. Currently, I've been attempting to throw myself back into novel writing, which has been proving to be much more difficult than I originally anticipated. However, I still plan on putting out -- poems and writings, that is heh heh -- for you all to read. Also, if things begin to take off with my book as I'm hoping, I'll start letting you guys sample bits and pieces here and there. 


Honestly, the thought of constructing a full length book is daunting as hell. I find it easy to think about all the successful books that have been written and let it freak me out like I can't do it. I fret about all the reasons it could fail. My friend Bayle has told me several times that I just need to write more, and I think it's true. "How are you ever going to be a successful author if you don't write." That put the -___- look on my face cuz she's right. Ideally I think I'd be putting the pen to the paper (or the fingers to the keyboard) for at least an hour everyday, but that definitely doesn't happen. The main blockade that's been tying me down me is the worry that things won't be cohesive and believable. Like I won't present a story that makes sense. Bayle reminds me that I just need to sit down and write and deal with all that other stuff later. It'll come together. I don't relate to many of my friends about writing that way, so her advice has been very helpful.


For almost as long as I can remember, I've wanted to publish a book. In first grade, I wrote little two page stories and at one point I had around eleven pages of a story that I thought was ready to become a book. I used to dream and plan about making stories about my dog Tallie being a character in a fantasy book that was basically Lord of the Rings meets Star Wars meets Narnia meets the Matrix. Crazy stuff. When I got my Mac (the one I still have) in 8th grade I wrote probably 25 pages of decent content and then stopped. I don't know why. I think since that time I've lost my vision and drive for book writing. I started writing for the school newspaper and the Mid-America Union's blog and then started my own blog. I've gotten away from my fantasy and fictional story telling roots that I love so much. That's the direction that I want to move towards once again, while still maintaining my poetry/lyrical and "inspirational" writing.


Anyways, that's some of what's going on in my life as far as writing goes. Again, I'm here in Estes Park, so I feel more motivated and inspired to write. My dear pumpkins, it is an incredible feeling to be away from Lincoln right now and be able to find some level of solitude. It feels like I'm nearing the edge of something better. But that might just be the coffee talking.


Regards,
JTM




P.S. I might be crazy, but for the last few weeks, I've been near death in agony longing for Autumn. Like really, all I can think about sometimes is driving about with my windows down, the heater on, and a pumpkin spice latte in my hand. Oh, and being able to wear flannel comfortably would be great, because these hot-ass humid days in Lincoln are teasing my psychotic side. It's ridiculous. Anyways, I'm enjoying the kind weather in the mountains for now. Take care, peoples.

Caffeinated Friendship

Greetings readers. I post this today from the ever beautiful Colorado. I'm here in Estes Park at a StarBucks trying to get some. Writing done. tee hee. And I'm taking time to post this poem I've been mulling over for awhile now. Finally I have it completed.

I cling to things that pick me up

And put me down

Reset me on solid ground

This coffee is a warm embrace

It smoothly awakens my face

I know you wish I was better with money

Then maybe I’d have nice things to flaunt

But most days, this comfort is all I want

Whether I feel steam from under a lid

Or put a straw to my lips

It’s a friend when I don’t want to see people

Or twiddle my thumbs under the steeple

It’s theory, it’s factual

It’s intimate, it’s sensual

Let me cuddle with you

It’s love, it’s hate

It’s patience, it’s haste

A bittersweet taste

I’ve heard it called a crutch

An addiction or habit, perhaps it’s true

Because you have one too

I’ll transform this liquid energy

Into legendary thoughts

I’ll continue my caffeinated friendship

Whether it’s healthy or not

Obsessive Perfectionist

I wrote the majority of this snippet of life while at work in between phone calls. For those that don't know where I'm working, I started at Gallup several weeks ago. McDonald's is no longer my master. Thank God. The following passages describe a time where I felt out of control as a result of obsessing over something I love. The first night of the play that I was a part of put a lot of strain on me afterwards. The second night was better than the first, for me. And the entire experience was incredibly rewarding.

        I hear two hundred hands clapping behind me. Its like a sudden eruption of audio lava, pouring over me in a warm embrace. The feeling lasts for a moment before the heat intensifies in my stomach. A tingling sensation crawls up my chest. These aren’t butterflies. They’re roaches.

Its my turn to take a bow. I turn around from the director chair to accept some of the applause, but its hard to feel deserving. In this moment, I feel... happy? Nervous. Scared? No. I feel myself withdrawing from the people around me.

There were only two opinions outstanding in my mind. The one of the stupid kid in the restroom and the old critic’s, the one living beneath my skin. I walk briskly out into the cool night air and begin pacing up and down the sidewalk, pondering the reasons for my strain. I don’t want to face the audience. I’m hiding from their opinions and remarks. How can I believe what they say? How do I take the compliments? They make me uncomfortable. I go back inside. My peers swarm me, smiling and satisfied. I do my best to put up a convincing front. They can’t know how I really feel. Not right now, anyway. We have to put on another show still. I have to stay confident, controlled, contained.

Soon, the props and equipment are stored and the school is being locked up. Several of us stand outside for a few minutes before I walk to my car. The broken duct taped window is down, leaving my car’s interior exposed. Then I see them. An overnight growth of tiny white circles had appeared like patches of unwanted mushrooms all over my seats and floor. There isn’t time to think of analyze, only to feel.

Corrosive words explode from my mouth. Car keys fly out of my hand into the grassy hill across the parking lot. I jump up and kick my car, yelling all the while. My friends chuckle as if it’s a normal hammed up rage. I’m glad they believe that. Some wonder why I’m upset, but I continue to openly vent.

So much for keeping my cool, I think. I assume that one of the actors must have committed this treachery against me. After all the work I’d put in, I’m repaid with this. The thought consumes me, and I realize that I would probably punch the perpetrator in the face if they were standing in front of me.

I walk around, steaming, searching for my keys lost in the grass. Finally I find them, get into my car, and begin driving angrily. Underoath is in the CD player and I scream every word with them. My open palms beat against the steering wheel, sometimes honking the horn.

In the midst of my red mist rage, I begin wondering at the answer to my volatile emotions. Maybe everything’s just built up and now I need a catharsis. I’m never this genuinely upset about pranks. I continue thinking about the night and how the play went, running it over and over again in my mind. Each time I think about it, I’m not satisfied, and yet all the compliments and enthusiasm on peoples’ faces tells me it was great.

Nothing is making sense. If everyone around me believes and is proud, then what’s wrong? It clicks with me suddenly. No one else’s opinion matters. Its what I think that counts. Its the pride that I take in my work that makes the difference. Its that one negative comment that’s setting off my alarm. It isn’t my humble reserved nature. This is the dark cynical perfectionist that beats himself up for things. I think about my visions for the new born play and how I’d pictured everything going on stage. Then I remembered tonight and realized that it wasn’t how I’d planned, but it was fine. It didn’t suck like I kept hearing in my mind. People enjoyed themselves. Let it go. The words bring on a deep relaxing breath. Let it go, stop worrying. Another exhalation and I’m back in control of my thoughts.

P.S. Scott Simpson was the one that put the hole punched paper in my car, and I deserved it. In November of the previous year, I, along with other friends, lit bags of human feces on his porch. Twas well played, Scotty, and I learned that payback is a bitch. Yours is coming... not really.

Black Clouds

Here are the lyrics to a song I've had written for quite awhile. But on a more exciting note, my poem "Stalemate" has been accepted to be published in an up and coming literary magazine here in Lincoln, "The Lincoln Underground." I'm super psyched about it. It's scheduled to be released sometime in January for their winter edition.

Check out "Stalemate" here ---> http://sonofapen.blogspot.com/2011/11/stalemate.html
The Lincoln Underground ---> www.thelincolnunderground.com

I fell asleep with you on my mind

But you were heavier

The thoughts were heavier

Than I’d planned

So I woke up in the morning

With this headache

Its just heartache

Above my neck

I swear your eyes could put me down

You punch me in the chest

Your crystal eyeballs

Predict a future

Where I don’t exist

While your skin

Is inches away

I try to resist

Black clouds

Are in the skies

Bad dreams

Are in my mind

Nobody

Seems to see

The side of me

That doesn’t want to breathe

There’s something moving in the covers

I’m thrashing

Thrashing around

Nightmares

I think I’m alone here in my room

But there are spiders

Spiders crawling

Down my wall

I swear your eyes could put me down

You punch me in the chest

Your crystal eyeballs

Predict a future

Where I don’t exist

While your skin

Is inches away

I try to resist

Black clouds

Are in the skies

Bad dreams

Are in my mind

Nobody

Seems to see

The side of me

That doesn’t want to breathe

People and Stories

I don't deal well with change. In fact, I'm sure most people have difficulty adapting to something different. For some that means moving or switching to a new job. Maybe its transferring schools or letting go of a habit. In my life, the majority of changes have meant friends moving away. Many of the poems or songs I've written deal with goodbye in some form.

In first grade, my best friend Joel moved away. I still remember hugging him and crying on the last day of school. A few friends left in the following years, but fifth grade proved to be our class's largest population. For the first and only time, the males outnumbered the females. This was a grand happening in our class's history because it never happened again. Michael, Tommy, Casey, and Nathan all left. Nathan stayed around town and was home schooled for awhile before moving to South Carolina in 8th grade. That goodbye was one of the suckiest.

All during grade school, despite my losing friends, there always seemed to be new people that entered my life to help me along. But by the time 7th grade rolled around, I found myself best friends with Thomas who I hadn't even liked that much in our younger days. Nevertheless, we clicked. We also turned to our female friends to fill the void of male presence. Since we'd known some of them for a long time, they were basically guys to us anyways. We also had a Peruvian named Johan join us for awhile. In my 8th grade year, we combined classrooms with the the 7th graders. This allowed for me to connect with more people and broaden my friend horizon. My freshman year separated me from the new 8th graders, but we gained Davis and Trevor who became close friends of mine. In time, Davis left.

Larissa came to CVA my Junior year, and I was just acquaintances with her. She hung out with several people who I was friends with and at some point she ended up at my house cooking eggs and potatoes with me in the middle of the afternoon. I like food... But she loves food... Almost to the point of going to buffets by herself...... Maybe that's a stretch, but regardless, we collaborated on a culinary creation and it was delicious. The next day she left to go back to Brazil for awhile. I remember that hitting me for some reason and bringing me to unexpected tears. Those few droplets of rain out of my clouded mind didn't make sense, and yet they were there. Long after that incident, we did become legitimate friends. Close enough even, that when she left another time, I wrote the song "Dear Sister". The lyrics are on my blog.

At some point in high school I had a girlfriend who -- like Voldemort *gasp*, shan't be named -- I dated long distance for awhile. Any time either of us would visit, the goodbyes were always difficult. Until they weren't. There came a time I was happy to see her leave. Then we broke up. Oops. But, winning.

So aside from the ex-girlfriend anomaly, farewells have put me through the ringer, mentally and emotionally. I've been asked if I have abandonment issues, but I don't think that's the problem. Perhaps its making a big deal out of a regular situation. This year when Alex and Sam left for their respected destinations, it was the same ordeal over again, except for two people at once. I thought Larissa was leaving too, and so I wrote "Destined for Departure" which is on my blog. However, before they left I realized something. When a person exits your life, even for awhile, things change. Everything shifts. It can be like a complete restructuring, a renovation.


When Joel left back in 1st grade, I didn't know what I'd do without my best friend. Who would I trade Pokemon cards with or play on the playground with? Other times when friends would leave, it wasn't nearly as emotional because they weren't as involved in my life. They were important, not intricate. That was why when Nathan left for South Carolina, I became depressed. The two of us had built up plans and goals to reach in movie making. We wrote scripts, filmed stop motion, and brainstormed for hours. In my mind, there was a future and purpose to be fulfilled with our team work. His moving away was like the rug being pulled out from under me at the time. Similarly, at least a month before high school graduation, I'd already begun the grieving process. In my mind, I couldn't see a world beyond CVA life: wrestling in the hallway, building couch sleds, doing little to no homework, and having fun all the time. Michael had been thinking about our class graduating and how his class would be left behind. We'd start talking about how much it'll suck, then we'd get sad and start cussing at each other to forget about the topic. That inspired the song "Bittersweetish", which can be found on my blog as well. The event that was supposed to be a high point didn't feel good at all. I was being forced to write the endnotes on a full four-year long chapter of life. I was venturing into the real world.

If there's one thing I've discovered in the past year or so, its that life moves on, whether you really want to or not. I didn't wanna leave high school, but now I'm in college. I never thought I'd work at McDonald's, but I did for nine months. I used to think life would just end somehow if things changed too much, but it doesn't.

Its like losing a favorite Lego character or piece. The adventures just can't be the same. You aren't able to make the story you think you should, because they were vital to its creation. After awhile of frustration, you begin to see that you can still tell stories with different characters, different pieces. Those first few stories are good ones. Then there comes a point where you realize you're already writing on new pages of the same book as the old stories. One day, these new stories will be the old ones, and the old ones will be fond ancient memory gems. Sometimes you find the old pieces you'd been missing. It might be three months. It might be two whole years. But then you can begin telling brand new stories all over again, almost like they never left.

JTM

P.S. Thank you for bearing with me in my blogging drought. It has been nice to have a break, but I'm ready to get back into it and give you guys some great content I hope. I appreciate your fandom and reading :)


"Dear Sister":http://sonofapen.blogspot.com/2011/11/dear-sister.html
"Bittersweetish":http://sonofapen.blogspot.com/2011/11/bittersweetish.html
"Destined for Departure":http://sonofapen.blogspot.com/2012/05/destined-for-departure.html

3 am

This post concerns my lack of posting as of late. Speaking of late, its three in the morning. I haven't been keeping up on blogging and I don't know why. Maybe its apathy. Maybe I haven't had anything great to say. All I know is that I've been finding myself caught in a self inflicted crossfire of 'I don't even know what'. I just feel confront with everything and heavy loads of thought. Feelings of everything around me falling away. Feelings of urgency and despair. Feelings of incompetence. Feelings of self destruction. Feelings of failure. Feelings of insanity and uncertainty. Feelings of compulsion. And so here I am obsessing over lyrics and music and planning for tomorrow's writing, knowing good and well that I most likely won't be able to get up in the morning to accomplish it. Anyways, sorry for the lack of posting. I just haven't been motivated to keep up on anything. But that's nothing new. And I don't have anything new to say, so I'm done talking now.

Destined for Departure

A personal poem that incorporates lyrics from a song that brings back some memories. Enjoy, comment, go like The Pumpkin Patch on FaceBook.

Atop a car in the middle of a field

Chilly air, cold wind

Reaching for our skin

Five out of five under soft shields

Sharing secrets

Admitting regrets

Discussing hidden hurt unhealed

I’m attempting not to preemptively grieve

But here is truth

From us on the roof

Three out of five are scheduled to leave

Exit state, exit town

No more hanging around

Letting go makes it hard to breathe

“The sun goes down, the stars come out

And all that counts is here and now

My universe will never be the same

I’m glad you came

I’m glad you came”

You entered my world out of the blue

We’re all friends

That’ll never end

Even if its the last time I see you

We had fun

Under a summer sun

We nod farewell, we tearfully do

We’ve made memories that’ll last

Buy coffee, go broke

Learn to smoke

Stare at the moon, laying in grass

Ponder God’s mysteries

Break habitual histories

Lay aside our protective masks

“The sun goes down, the stars come out

And all that counts is here and now

My universe will never be the same

I’m glad you came

I’m glad you came”

This chapter won’t remain

I have to admit

This will hurt quite a bit

But there’s no one to blame

Over separated years

And the falling tears

Because I’m still glad you came

Borrowed lyrics: "Glad You Came" - The Wanted

Otherside

A poem inspired by doing exactly what the first two lines say. I also received some inspiration from ColdPlay's "What If". When I think about how fleeting each day and my life is, I try and take time to not let moments slip. Telling people I love them often. Thanking service men and women for what they've done. Breaking internalized stereotypes by striking up conversation with someone I feel is "sketchy" or undesirable. Things like that just make me feel good inside. Life's too short to pass those times up. This poem is basically for anyone in my life.

One second I’m on my back

Under a blue dusky sky

The next I could be

Falling off the Otherside

The dogs are barking

Hellhounds, it would seem

Here I am in a moment

Existing for the time being

One second I’m a floating speck

In an ocean of stars

The next I could be

The vapor exiting your car

Bombs might be falling

In just a minute or two

So why waste life away

Living it without you?

One second you’re my friend

Somebody that I love

If the next you walk away

Meet me again up above

Then when the world is void,

We’ll have no more disputes

No money or school or people

To stop us from being true

If one second when we live

Either of us should depart,

The next moment being Heaven,

Just know you have a place in my heart

A special spot where we exist,

Only to be filled by you and I

Dearest friend, I’ll be writing, always

‘til we fall off the Otherside

Jugular Jab

Sometimes things reach a near breaking point in class. My arms get all tingly, my legs get restless, my brain feels overloaded, and I just want to run out or flip a desk over. In these extreme times, I try and channel it into writing. So yeah, I wrote this during class and was glad my teacher didn't walk over and sneak a peak.

Class sucks, what the fuck, glad I tucked

A needle in my bag

Take note, as I float, its in my throat

A jugular jab

I grab my veins for some paint, no more restraint

I smear it on the floor

Then I start my final art: a literal work of heart

Dripping to the door

I shatter glass, then they gasp, I’m falling fast

Straight to the ground

The swirling in my head, aching in my bed, things you said

Finally make no sound

Thoughts

This is a poem that I've had sitting around for awhile. I wrote it one late night/morning when everything felt overwhelming and out of control. In those moments, writing can be the only tangible thing that makes sense.

I thought about quitting today

I hope I don’t

Because there’s so much to do

Accomplishments

I have to move past you

I thought about using today

But I had to stop

Because it was too insane

False glory

And it isn’t the right way to change

I thought about dying today

But then I stopped

Because it was all too real

A real escape

But not a solution to what I feel

2.06 buys me a burger and fries

But 2:06 am is the time

And now is the second

To change, to live, and to never look back

StarGazing

The earthquake

The wind

The fire

None of the three

Truly brought you to me

Star gazing

My belief is aloof

Something amazing

Send down proof

The voice

The quiet

The whisper

In silence, I am in sync

At peace where I can think

Speak to me

I only want to be told

Appear to me

I only want to behold

My faith

My trust

My hope

Are shaky under midnight sun

And still I ask for Your will to be done