Taking a Step Forward

since i can remember, the words i always heard were: "i can't" and "not now". my father was a drunk and the first 17 years of my life, he was a blur, passing in and out of the house like a ghost. my mother with her short fuse would throw the nearest object in any direction, to add action to the pain. one day, she couldn't find the remote for the tv and started tearing apart the living room. throwing pillows this way and that. my father sat there with a beer in his hand laughing to himself and infuriating my mother. who in turn started throwing items. lamps, pillows, and chairs, anything she could put her hands on. then a lamp flew in my direction and i ducked. there were two crystal candle holders on the coffee table, candle holders that were given to my parents for their wedding, and i saw it all happen in slow motion. the lamp hit both of them and they fell to the ground, shattering on the hardwood floor. i looked over at my father, as my mother stood there foaming at the mouth, and i saw a lone tear roll down my fathers cheek. his heart broke along with the crystal and my mother walked out of the room. at a time when my parents should of been teaching me the ways of life, i was a witness to chaos.

throwing things became a way for our family to communicate, my brother once hit me with a lamp in the face because i kept talking aloud to myself. i had a black eye for several days. there are several pictures of me when i was young, alone, out on the steps of our house, or ducked in a corner sulking, to my parents it was always funny, they would take pictures and laugh at me because i was feeling bad. they thought it was cute that i would take things so seriously. i had no idea that the way i was treated then would determine the way i dealt with pain now. i had no friends as a kid, and the ones i did have, would usually stop coming over to our house for fear that they might be hit with something next. eventually i started building small fortresses in the back yard with cardboard boxes, mostly just sitting inside reading, or drawing people on the walls and talking to them. it seemed like a much better alternative, here i could be alone, and nobody could make fun of the cute goofy kid with glasses and a crooked neck.
its funny how things never change, even when we grow up, we're still those little ankle bitters running around never breaking our old habits.
i then learned that it was up to me to do the things i've always wanted. i rebelled hard and fast, not fearing consequences if only i could feel a little fear running in me for just a second.

there's a good heart beating in here
but it always seems
like no one is ever ready for it.
and i can't force those feelings
in someone.
for me,
it's i can
i will
and i have
and i will continue to do so.
not everybody is alike,
that i understand.
but maybe it's much easier
to walk away
while the cut is fresh
than to let it bleed out
too long
and it will never heal?
if you don't play the game
and sit on the bench
you'll never get hurt.
but you'll also never
celebrate
when you hit the ball
out of the park
over everyones head
and into that girls heart

sometimes, when the blank page stares at me, the cursor blinking, hoping for me to string together a sentence or two, teasing me, laughing at my desertion from sanity, i can sit down and read another writer, and know that he also fought with himself. he sipped from the same bottle, smoked his way out of trouble, and struck his fist against the bastard machine, because no one else was around to understand. it's a constant surrender of your intimate thoughts, you air out the dirty laundry hoping that somehow the other humans here will understand you a little better.

that's stupid though.

they just want to stay away from you even more.

because you're that guy nobody wants to be around at the party. you lack the ability to lie, bullshit and indulge.

so you make your own party, off in the corner somewhere, with a bottle between your legs, and you make funny faces at people, create stories and conversations, day dream about the women and observe from far.

hence:

the words.

welcome to my party

Look at this Asshole over Here...

look at this asshole over here,
preaching on his soap box
pretending like he knows something
24 year old punk
thinks he's a man
you're no man
just a whiny little boy
look at this asshole over here,
thinks he's a writer because he can arrange some words,
make "stories" out of them,
things with "Feeling" and "truth"
feel this.
look a this asshole over here,
complains that he can't get a girlfriend
when he drinks, smokes and has to make a conscious effort to smile
i don't completely blame you,
you do have a knack for choosing the wrong women
married, just divorced, moving away, just separated
you've got a sorry looking track record kid
look at this asshole over here,
he's going to make it out okay,
even if i am just a voice in his head,
i'll carry you through this
just like all those other times
asshole.

westward bound
highway
low ways
lot's of ways
for us to cope
dangling at the end
corpse blowing in the wind
five o'clock high
and my boots are moist
with
dear
tears
talking to oneself
conducting conversations with oneself
talking to the pictures
the tv
the trees
hugging anyone
who will take one
and i feel it regressing
the air thinning out
nights growing colder
windows fogging more so
now than never before
i surrender
way to easily
to things i am passionate
about
if only
i were more of an asshole
and could dispose of people
without remorse
or guilt
stabbing at my brain
then i wouldn't be
yelling
at the walls