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New Years Vomit

December 31, 2014

I wrote this last year and didn’t have the ovaries to publish it on the blog. One year later, most of my fears are very much relevant. Be careful now, that’s old vomit you’re reading.

 

I’m fighting a big one,

this writing thing can’t feed me

black cats can’t calm me yet

at my human moments, most frightened moments

I reach for a pencil

and write.

 

been riding out on the idea

that skills and education

will pay bills and rectification

and watching people on those social platforms

being artists in the city

never do mention how incredibly hard it is to squeeze

blood from a stone,

to give away service for free

to watch dreams gather dust on the shelf

because pain begins to rust in the belly and

the grown-folks world has been in full affect for years now

and I’ve been playing catch-up and still

i dream of performing

and flourishing

and feeding a family off my stories.

 

of feeling the fingertips of someone who loves me

of mothering children, i lift above me

because of me and my sacrifices tires,

i realize i can’t make choice on my own its when i let my life go for a blink,

too tired to think

grown erratic and mad

mad at myself for not cherishing my health

and my wealth and my worth and

not knowing although I was young I was special.

 

i am special.

 

as an artist i must meditate on this pain, the luxury of forgetting is forbidden.

memories, mock-mark my writing,

no science, all nostalgia

no logic, all emotion

documenting life and feeling heat off the page,

that must count for something.

 

creating a story must make up for the suffering,

a six-year-old dead in a pool of his own blood

have amnesty without exploitation

be critical without losing compassion

being opinionated without condemning others for complacency

understanding that choice and thought and knowledge and love and birth and death and blood and ink can not all be melting on the tip of my tongue but also can

 

that romanticizing of our youth can be dangerous, that analyzing too much is a result of post-secondary training,

and they’ve taught me to doubt

all matters of:

speaking

living

loving

complaining

creating

 

it boils down to the human spirit

the tears in my eyes and

the pain in my chest and

the tingle in my knees and

the lump in my throat and

that moment when a poem slides down my brain

and finds a home in my skull

or a song

is resurrected after years of mourning its death

 

my life can’t possibility mean so little

 

God sent me cats to cope,

writing in a fury works better than sharing feelings

with even my closest conspirators

 

despite my dizzy chaotic yet frustratingly static state of mind,

i am freed by the movement of the days

the rotation of the earth

the gifts and gauges of tomorrows to come

and on my last tomorrow

i pray that my death

be a surprise.

 

Over and out! May 2015 be a killer year for you

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