Facing My Demons

[Untitled]

If a tree falls in the wilderness and no one is there

to confirm it by sight and to say that they hear

can I really say that this tree did fall?

I'd have no witnesses to the stand, no man I could call

By what measure of justice can I enact my willful hand

to find a way to qualify what happened on that land

I imagine it's quite cumbersome facing such a feat

but if the answer isn't the real challenge, 

it's the journey I must beat…

Though no man could see this tree fall

The soil hides tales it will tell all

there is ruin and discord within the ground

The once peaceful dirt, moved around 

Though the sound of the tree fell on no ear

And the reason it fell remains unclear

The leaves remember the breeze 

from the lumber's tumble--and likewise the trees

they rely on their roots for support

to maintain its life, and for life to come forth

but when the wind blows and trees don't prevail

its not a simple plot but a much deeper tale. 

What if I told you that I was the tree in the wilderness, alone, with his screams unheard? 

I've been screaming silently for so long that I forgot I was screaming to begin with. I was essentially a prisoner in a cell that I created for my own protection. Now, I try not to make big sweeping statements because not everyone is the same, but I firmly believe one of the few exceptions to that statement is "Everyone wants to be heard." No matter for what, if we have the will to speak, the desire to be heard already exists. This poem was my initial admission that something bigger had manifested from years of being unheard--and some of that was loneliness. I propose that despite how populated the wilderness is with trees, this particular fallen tree feels alone. It's kind of odd talking about real life issues within the metaphor of a tree, but I have to admit its definitely much easier. The only problem is that sort of avoidance is what leads to issues piling into what seems like an insurmountable mountain. Sort of like when you're too tired to put away your clothes after a long day, so you neatly stick them in a corner. However, after a string of long, tiring days you find yourself digging to find your chair, and eventually your floor, and so on. Nobody's perfect. Every now and then I care too much about what someone else thinks. It happens. 

One of the beautiful tragedies of life is that our experiences compound upon each other. No matter how many new leaves we turn over, and new slates we start, we are always a product of our experiences. We can grow into so many types of people because of that. HOW WE DEAL DETERMINES OUR DESTINY! (I'm sorry but I saw the opportunity to throw some alliteration in there, and I went for it!) I know that I have wonderful things ahead of me, and because of that I needed to correct some of the things that were keeping my happiness and success at bay. So now I'm facing my personal demons. I love myself. I do for many reasons, and I have a new reason now. We all have a part of ourselves that will do anything necessary to preserve and protect us from hurt. I recently became aware of mine. I have repressed my true feelings about a great deal, unknowingly (and much to my surprise), in an effort to protect my happiness--to preserve my smile. The day I realized this, I yelled out in thought, "Who gave you permission to do this Self?" But that is an ungrateful question, I had the best intentions when I allowed myself to parade around in oblivion. I did. It sucks now that everything is piled up in my face, but I meant well, I guess. (It's quite awkward talking about myself in this manner haha. I am myself at the end of the day, but please don't get lost in that banter.)

I've become so numb recently. I haven't really cried in years. The last time I shed some real tears was in '07 when my grandmother died. So you can imagine my bewilderment when I started bawling like a baby after a recent confrontation. Not cool. I quickly sucked it up of course! My natural pain relieving, numbing tendencies kicked in quickly and I sucked it up, but still, it was an experience that left me feeling more vulnerable than I had in a long time. I don't really care about societal perceptions as much as I used to anyway (living in NYC helped me with that). I think it's healthy to cry and I haven't done it in such a significant time, my reserves are bursting at the seams. You truly haven't had a full day unless you have LAUGHED, CRIED, and spent time in THOUGHT. 

I've suffered in my writing as well. Most times I don't know how to write what I feel, or where to start. I've written lots of poems on love and the benevolence of life and all from being inspired while walking around on a sunny day or something like that. But I cannot be inspired to write about the HARD things that I endure because I always check the negativity at the door. I'm so numb that my fingers become still in the chill, so there's nothing that I feel. <---Exactly that. Writing about the hard stuff means confronting it---living in the moments I have trained myself to avoid since my early youth. When my girlfriend told me that I needed to tap into my pain and write about my plight. I was reluctant. But I knew I had to. And I did. The poem above was written after confronting that idea. But I was not happy. I knew I hadn't dug deep enough. I was still hiding. I let the metaphor conceal the majority of the message. I learned a bunch from this hesitance. I know that I have to write a deeper more involved follow up to it. And now that I am making time for me to do this necessary writing, I will. Never let your circumstance hinder you from doing what you were created to do and love. Instead, use the circumstance to procure more art or more ideas, continue to do whatever it is you may do and you will see GREAT things come from it.

This period of guarding myself from hurt and running from it in my writing, when realized, forced me to do exactly what I was afraid of…face my inner demons. I've begun writing again. And it's full of pain. So what.

[Untitled]

I'm so numb 

my fingers become still in the chill

there's nothing that I feel

or that i will

in doubt of a cure

but I desire to heal

so if I freeze this bleeding

it can no longer spill 

my screams 

they would be shrill

only they've been muted

or is my voice just ill?

No

None choose to listen

that's the deal.

[Untitled]

I release my problems on the page, 

let the ink pierce the parchment,

the pen directs the orchestra of my pain

pulsing back & forth like the heart pumps

pushing the pace, pausing without grace

placing passion and perfunctoriness in tandem.

pupils dilate as they perceive the portrait of prose

the pieces of me placed with purpose 

yet scattered like pounded pottery

or plundered property

take your pick, pick your take

it probably populates the page

prances the stage 

either way

they participate in a pictorial void of picture

particularly present with punctuation

there they remain 

pain and problems perpetually imprisoned

on paper to stay

until another day

All of my poems in this post are untitled. I haven't figured out the names I want to use for them. If you have any cool ideas please leave me a comment. I will appreciate every suggestion.