Drinking Beer on a Couch

This post is in response to Emma, who gave me a suggestion for a topic to write on. So, anyone reading this, feel free to leave a comment with any and all topics you'd like to have discussed. I'm always looking for some direction to take with my posts. Maybe then I'd write on here more often.

The question posed was about what my "ideal" job/lifestyle/career would be. I'm going to expand that to also talk a little about choosing a career path for yourself and maybe some other things.

I've blogged a lot about the things I'm naturally talented at, mainly writing and music. There are numerous poems and songs and a few short stories on my blog and they are something I take a fair amount of pride in. As far back as I can remember, I've had a need to create. My mind has been imagining and creating ever since I had toys in my hand. I set up elaborate battles with my Great Adventure toys, Imaginext, Legos, and Beanie Babies. Each character and animal and weapon intrigued me to no end.

That thirst for creating took a new form when I found out that reading and writing existed. My mom tells me that when I came back from my first day of Kindergarden or first grade, I was upset because they weren't teaching me how to read yet. Something in me wanted to read and when I was finally able to read, I immediately began writing. There are old totes in storage areas where some of my first writings are. I specifically recall a short, fairly plot-less story about people finding a dead elephant in an alley. It was written on that old grey/tan paper with gigantic spaces between lines and scrawled in large, sloppy letters. Granted, I was in first grade, but something inside me had this inherent need to create. To form something out of nothing but the raw thoughts in my head was empowering and fulfilling.

Skip ahead to 8th grade. I'd been listening to my own variety of music for a couple years, choosing to mostly do away with the southern gospel quartet tunes I was raised on. Sum 41 and Linkin Park and Breaking Benjamin were all the rage. Hearing and experiencing that music was a shock to my senses in the best way possible. It was similar to how my brain reacted to being able to read stories. It wasn't long after listening to rock music that I felt a deep longing to learn guitar. I fantasized about having a rock band with my friends and we all talked about how much fun it would be. At some point, I asked my dad to teach me on his old Harmony guitar and he, not having an extensive musical knowledge, taught me what he knew. He showed me how to read chord diagrams, some basic strumming, and most everything else I learned was on the internet.

The common denominator with my writing and music is that once I experienced something, a huge part of me absolutely had to create it. I suppose it's like planting a seed. Once a story sunk into my brain or a riff worked its way through my ears, it began growing into a need for self expression. That's the best way I can explain it off the top of my head, anyway. It's hard to put into words, but there's really only one word needed. It's what's at the core of this topic: passion.

It might sound like old hat, but passion is important. The word might bring romantic images to mind, but even a simple Google search tells us it's more than that. "Strong and barely controllable emotion." Passion is that thing embedded in each of us that has no rhyme or reason. It just is. Many people go their entire lives without ever finding it. It's locked up inside somewhere, just waiting for a catalyst to set it off.

I suppose it could be compared to an addiction. Some people are alcoholics or shopoholics and those addictions might hit them early in life or later on. Passion is similar. I was blindsided by my passions at a fairly young age. First grade for my writing and eighth grade for music, though I didn't realize they would become such intricate parts of my being back then.

The hard part, for those who don't know their passion, is finding out what it is. Many of my friends are in that boat. Most of us are at that college, early-to-mid-twenty age where we're trying to figure things out. At this stage of life, we're trying to maintain stability by paying bills, getting sleep, fixing our vehicles, etc. while also moving forward in our education and self discovery. It's hard to balance all these things we have to do while pursuing the things we want to do. But is passion just the things we want to do? Maybe, but not necessarily. I remember talking to a Holmes Lake park worker and he said that he wanted to make a living by sitting around drinking beer. Beer is great, but I don't know if it constitutes a passion in that context. Perhaps brewing his own beer or touring the world tasting all the different varieties would be more of a passion. Note that I'm not going to tell people that their passion is stupid or that it's not really a passion. I don't understand or relate to some people's passions, but that doesn't make it any less close to their heart. Just know that it is important to distinguish the difference between a pastime and a passion. Pastimes do just that: they pass the time. Passion, ideally, adds meaning and fulfillment to life.

However, there are people content to work a job for their entire lives that they don't absolutely love, but it pays the bills. Then in their free time, they delve into their passions which are also pastimes or hobbies, and they are fine with it being that way. This leads into me answering Emma's question for myself.

I've always wanted my passions to pay the bills while also giving me fulfillment. I don't thrive well at jobs and never have. My natural ability of talking to people and communicating has been useful in past jobs, but it is not a passion of mine. I don't get excited about talking to people, but I can do it. Whereas my dad can talk to people and is passionate about sales, I can sort of do it, but I hate it. As a youngster, I wanted to be an actor, a director, screenwriter, a novelist, and a music artist. I guess those desires haven't left me. I've always been told that those things are unreal desires, but they still nag at my mind. Can't help it. However, recently I've decided to pursue opening my own small business (more on that some other time). But basically, there's your answer, I guess, Emma. My ideal career paths are somewhat unreal, though I still plan on pursuing them. Thankfully, everybody else is not me and there is hope for you.

As I've said, it's often difficult balancing the things we have to do with the ones we want to do. Add to that this quest of discovering our passion and then deciding what to do with it. Is your passion something you want to make a living out of? Or is it just something to do on the side?

My best friend Thomas is a great example. He can work a monotonous job he hates because it pays the bills, but he's still searching for his passion. He loves playing video games, but he doesn't think it's quite his passion. I'm the opposite. I know my passions, but can't seem to work a job for very long before finding myself in mental and financial turmoil. He's an extremely talented guy, both in the things he's naturally good at as well as the knowledge he's picked up at jobs, school, and his free time. He knows what he likes doing, but doesn't know how those things translate into a fulfilling career. He's tossed around the idea of accounting as well as being a college professor and maybe other things I can't remember. The thought of being an account makes me ill, but I know he would do well at it. I also know he would be a damn good college professor and probably enjoy it.

That's the thing about passions and talents and such. Everyone is so different in what they like and what they're good at. One thing I know about passion: You can't hide it. You can't deny it. You see it in people's eyes. You hear it in their words. You feel it. Even my slower-spoken friends reveal immediately that something excites them. That's passion. That's what you're looking for. But maybe you don't know what that thing is. Don't worry just yet.

Start by asking yourself this: What is it that I enjoy doing? If it's sitting around drinking beer, great, but think harder. Come up with the top few things that you love doing. Are they things you couldn't imagine life without? Again, if it's sitting around drinking beer, I understand, but push that aside for a second. Really, if for some reason you could never, ever do that thing again, what would happen?

Is there anything you do that other people have said you are talented at? Even if it's been something small, think about the compliments you've received. Lots of people say "I'm not good at anything." Maybe you're not good at anything... yet. You just haven't found it. Is there something you've been wanting to try that you haven't got around to doing? Do it. Stop saying you don't have time and find the time. Even if it's a little bit of time somewhere in the chaos of the day.

Now think about this: You have about 80 years on earth to live. In 2013, The World Health Organization said the average life expectancy for people in the United States is 79.8 years*. If you're in the 20-ish range, think about how much time you have left. Yikes, this could get depressing quickly, but it's not meant to be. What do you want to look back on your life and see? Is it sitting on the couch every day drinking beer? Is it working hard at a well paying job that you despise? Why waste anymore time? Whether you know what that thing is or you're still searching, don't give up. It's out there.


JTM

P.S. I'd love to hear responses as well as any topics you'd like me to write about. Just post them in the comments section. Don't agree with something I said in this post? I wanna hear about that too. Thanks for reading.




*Thank you, Wikipedia.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_life_expectancy#List_by_the_World_Health_Organization_.282013.29

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

The Wish

A snippet of life turned into poetry.

You said:

“That was the biggest shooting star I’ve ever seen”

I said:

“You should hurry and make a wish”

You closed your eyes

Facing toward the sky

And then asked I,

“What did you wish for?”

You said:

“I wished that she’d return”

But your mind, which keeps track

Of her financial lack,

Whispered: “She might not come back”

Poet Tree

This piece was created with thought towards the numerous great artists throughout history that have struggled and fought against internal demons. Various ones that come to mind for me personally are Kurt Cobain (Nirvana), Layne Staley (Alice in Chains), Whitney Houston, Heath Ledger, Edgar Allen Poe, Eminem and others that I can't remember right now. They obviously aren't the only ones that have gone through hard times and they haven't all committed suicide. But this poem is a dedication to them as well as reflection of my own mind during dark times.

Oh em gee

There’s Poet Tree

Where all the artists hang

Like you and me

Poets and musicians swaying

No longer do they write or sing

They wove their own rope

Out of sensitive heart strings

Substance abuse, shotgun skull

Sad and lonely and fearful

Inability to cope

Against the riptide’s deadly pull

Now I can see

Here’s Poet Tree

With a new coil fashioned

Especially for me

We’re never twenty-eight

Consumed by things that frustrate

Unable to see past the present

Skeletons and blind hate

Tragedy and trouble

Disappointment, a popped bubble

In tune to issues of life

Buried beneath rubble

I broke branches with my knees

Ascending the trunk of Poet Tree

Hands that once wrote words

Tightened the rope around me

We’re forever twenty-seven

Free spirits locked out of Heaven

Until that day peace prevails

Minds and gates finally open

I used to be sixteen

Somewhere I lost me

Inside a vat of restlessness

And an apathy to be

So crouching in the leaves

I leapt from Poet Tree

Hope for tomorrow sprung

Into the air alongside me

Music Monday - Five Finger Death Punch

I'm going to start something new on my blog that I hope will keep me writing more consistently. Every Monday I'll do my best to put out a post about the music I've been listening to most recently. It'll be different but I'll still give my perspective and blah blah blah. I realize that today isn't Monday, though I do tend to get my days of the week confused. But if I had posted on Monday, this is what it would have been...

This past week I've been listening to a lot of Five Finger Death Punch. I hadn't listened to much from their first release, but upon doing so I realized why its called The Way of the Fist. Only a couple songs in and it felt like I'd just had the crap beaten out of me. The sick guitars' speed picking coupled with intensely belligerent lyrics makes for an audio smack in the face I won't forget.

Lead vocalist Ivan Moody's loud yelling vocals add impact to the angry lyrics while the guitars and drums slam the air waves with a sound that makes me think of a jack hammer pounding through concrete. In addition to the rough shouting, the album contains a decent amount of clean singing particularly during chorus lines.

Concerning the lyrics, I'd say "thems be fightin' words" and its true. Throughout most of the album, the words express great levels of disdain, frustration, and pissed-off-ness; Usually its complemented by an element of pessimism such as in "Never Enough" the words 'In the end, we're all just chalk lines on the concrete, drawn only to be washed away'. In "The Devil's Own", the lyrics talk about a childhood being destroyed by the father. In the song Ivan (who I assume wrote the lyrics) blames his father for being the reason he's dead inside. He also admits to hating to what he's become as a result of a flawed upbringing. Needless to say, the words contain high levels of emotion, which makes it one of my favorites. Along with that piece, I favor "The Way of the Fist", "White Knuckles", "Stranger Than Fiction", "Ashes", and "A Place to Die".

The entire album is rock solid and it was a great start to FFDP's music career. That's the end to our first Music Monday despite it being Wednesday -___-. I don't plan on them being long or super refined. Shoot me some feedback, comments, etc.

Everything, Everyone

Everything, Everyone

Is asking me

To do something

To be someone

The weight of the world

Compresses my spine

I’m a clumsy fruit vendor

Dropping baskets of responsibility

My burdens, my strains

Are troubling to this crippled brain

The vicious cycle of stress avoidance

Increases angst and annoyance

Anything, Anybody

Is distracting to me

The shiny things

Attractive bodies

The thoughts of my mind

And my steam-punk dreams

Pervade conscious behavior

I’m afraid I will be crushed

My burdens, my strains

Are unique to personal pains

They might be handled fine

If they were against a different mind

I must confess that as of late I haven't been very satisfied with my poem writing. I don't know I'm just in an uninspired slump or if I'm just being too half-ass about things. Regardless, I finished this poem and I'm posting it because I gotta keep moving forward and putting things up. I've been collaborating with a couple of the seniors for their class play this year as well as helping with other things and maybe my mind just can't handle all these outlets at once. Anyway, pumpkins, that is all.

Mathematic Research Papers

First of all, I know its lame as hell that I've let over two weeks slide by since my last post. Believe me, I of all people have noticed. Tis a tragedy, but meh, it happens.

Today I sit here making an effort to write.  College assignments are needing to be done, but I've decided to blog. My coffee today is a hazelnut latte from Lincoln Espresso.

I've recently been undergoing a bit of a creative drought. As the young people say, "it blows chunks". I feel that some of this is due to other stressors that have built up gradually. Kinda like mineral deposits that make up the water ring in a toilet bowl. It makes me feel crappy, ironically enough. One of the big things that I continuously have been putting off is this mother of a research paper that we've been working on all semester long. I know that it isn't the right attitude to have about school work, but I absolutely detest everything about it. The laborious research, quoting said research, and the tedious organization to make a coherent argument that I could give a damn about. Evidently it is a valuable skill to be able to write cohesive research papers and work through problem-solution arguments and blah blah bullshit. So what I've been doing is sitting on the edge of a pool and pushing the paper's head back under the water, hoping it'll drown eventually. But alas, its resilience prevails and here I am, bitching about it on my blog.

Its a sad, pathetic, hopeless feeling to have something laid out so perfectly in front of you with step by step directions on how to accomplish the task, and still you manage to ffffff-mess it up. I must have missed a memo somewhere about how to do things and process like a normal person. That's what life feels like at times. However, it remains true that I am not the only human being on this planet who does or has felt this. Anyways, in the course of thinking these things, I pondered my day and feelings and time spent with my on-campus counselor who does her best to figure out what I'm saying. While thinking these things, I decided to write. Here's the free-form abstractish madness that came out:

"I sit on the edge of my bed as my sluggish brain closes its sleep function and attempts to make me arise. I get on my feet and trip over junk that my foggy vision neglected to warn me about. I don’t have the energy to swear about it. The person that stares back at me in the bathroom mirror looks like hell; A confused, unshaven, squinty-eyed face tries to remember who it belongs to. I manage to piss on the floor before aiming the rest into the toilet bowl. I sigh. Another day has begun and my caged brain is becoming keenly aware. There is an extremely fine line between entering the shower or relapsing back into bed, the latter of which feels much easier. The hot water turns chilly too soon and I walk my unfit toweled frame to the closet. Decisions, decisions. I feel my eyes close as I stand in place, focus lost. After regaining coherence, I dress myself very slowly. My back pack’s contents are scattered in a similar fashion to my morning mind. I collect the books and pencils, shoving them into my bag. Good enough. Too lazy for socks, I slip on flimsy flip-flops and trudge out the door through dewy grass to my car.

I planned to nap, considering my attendance was the main thing that mattered. The discussion grabs my attention, however, and I find myself paying attention. Then all at once, I’m asleep with my neck in a very uncomfortable position against the wall next to me. Class ends and I stumble out of the room to my next engagement.

I’m in my counselor’s office and she’s is advising me. I know she means well, but I don’t understand the logistics of it all. Everything is ideal. I respond to questions with answers I know I should say because I can’t seem to explain the real truth of anything I feel. I stare at the hazelnut latte in my left hand while my other fingers thump the arm of the chair making random beats. I hear speech coming from the chair diagonally left of me but I realize that I am not listening. I’m truly not in the room at the moment. She thinks I am, but I’m unconsciously dabbling in the future and sulking in the past. I nod, trying to acknowledge and affirm the words of the professional. Everything is ideal. I see the reasons behind the logical structure she offers me; I just don’t see how to apply or relate to it. The advice and plans make sense as ideas, but I imagine them falling apart upon entering the real world. My life. Everything is a theory. I blink rapidly, taking on the reality of it all. She didn’t have solutions for me. Just guesses. Just hopes. I feel constricted by something. A poison or a noose. Some lethal unidentifiable threat. A malignant tumor. Doctors must run tests on patients to find the problem. She had thoughts. But a suggestion doesn’t cure sickness. And an answer is different than an antidote."

I don't have anything else immediately to talk about other than to mention the fact that a lot of my friends are starting blogs now that I've had one for months. I feel quite hipster. Although, as Alex told me "If a person considers themselves a hipster, they're probably just an asshole". To which I replied "I don't really fit that 'hipster mold'". Ironic right? That is all, pumpkins.

JTM