u/thegreatunknown11

Damn…
So, I made it?
Last I remember,
I was
over my head,
Spinning my flavored
Chaos
Like it was bound to rope
the end of the line,
This time
And my very last thought:
“Will I make it?
Fuck it,
Bottoms up—
time will tell.”

Dear God,
I’m savant-level stupid
at surviving my idiocies,
Honestly.
I think you should
dumb it down a couple notches
If my footprint is to hold
any
measure—again.
Just level
with me here
For one moment—
I shouldn’t be this
—Good at Anything.
—Good for Nothing
Hell, I made
a life out
of whatever didn’t kill me
and called the pattern safe.

I sleep beside slammed doors,
memorize unspoken language
In rooms.
I hear danger lurking:
Shaded below my cranial defenses
through the walls—
And shake
hand-to-hand,
as if we were already
sufficiently introduced.
Then wake up grateful
nothing happened yet.
I mistook that gratitude
for peace.

I learned the floorboards,
the draft,
the window’s rattle—
and called that
home.
And what a fucking pain in the ass
it is
to work on that place.

Existential Irony—
prisoners will scratch days
into walls,
weeks into holidays,
Years into the cold, hard floor—
then trace the grooves
after the door opens.
I still haven’t hit the ground
And I still can’t make bail.
I ought to try
To deserve this place
More than I despise
the warden.

And another thing, God—
Am I supposed
to feel more than…
this?
And don’t start
with that same rhetorical dogma—
I’ve had enough
to know the difference
Between answers
And the runaround.

We both know
the one who carries
The wait
of my steps,
The weight
of my stops.

Sorry,
it’s just that
I mean—
How much deeper must I feel
Everything?
Can we please,
Just try—
The ordinary kind?
The kind people seem
to recognize
without checking themselves
for a pulse afterward.

Sometimes
something terrible happens
and I understand
that it is terrible.
Perfectly.
I know which face to make.
Which words belong there.
Where my hands should go.
And that scares
the absolute shit out of me.
Because knowing
what a heart would do
is not necessarily
proof
I used mine.

My whole life
has been spent
Here.
And I think
I’ve confused understanding
people,
prisoners,
patients,
with feeling them.

I learned
Empathy—
And exactly
like the floorboards—
I have been made
To Creak underneath another’s burdens.
Such is the cost—
The effect of such a causal
Choice—to be of service.
Enough repetition
and even a prisoner
knows exactly
where everyone steps.

So tell me—
if I know someone is hurting
before they tell me,
but their pain
doesn’t always hurt me—
what does that make me?

The one with the knife—
with a stabbing pen—
recording their cry,
gashing with
their bloody soul?
Or am I just
the one who noticed first—
The one who watches,
Taking notes—
Analyzes their condition,
And prepares for surgery,
without any
Surgical Procedure
to follow?

Fuck,
what if
I was always
Both?
Aware? Absent?
Cold? Hot?
Kind? Arrogant?
Wise? Foolish?

Listen—
I’ve been called
all that shit, before.
And the stupid fucks
don’t even know
their write
from they’re left—
and I’m fucking
stuck
with their latest recitation—
The past times
of a failed derogation.

Helpful…
HA!
How in the actual fuck
is that Helpful?
Same sheep,
Every election.

And there’s the problem.
I know
—what I’ve fucking done,
And what to do
Forward.
—I know how I’ve thought
And discerned who to permit
each Shaping.
—what I’ve survived,
what killed me—
And the justice
of each.
—what I give.
And for whom it is given.
Forgiveness.
—what I refuse,
what I neglect—
And I own
each of their scars.
And with gratitude—
I know what I regret,
Incomprehensibly.
But I learned
how to respect those
Substantially.

But somewhere
in all that evidence,
I keep looking
for the witness.

Me,
Still?

Not the version
who reads the room.
Not the one
who makes the joke
five seconds after
something should have
broken him.
Just—
me.

And, sure—
that’s a stupid question.
The silences teach me
there isn’t
some untouched man
underneath all this.
My true identity
isn’t hiding
underneath the fire.
Some of me
walked in.
Some of me
walked out
because of it.

That bothers me.
Because some of my
best qualities
have terrible
origin stories.
And some of my worst
kept me alive.
So which ones
am I supposed
to apologize for?
Which ones
do I heal?
Which ones
do I keep?

And if I tear out
everything
that pain installed—
Dear God,
what if I renovate
this whole fucking place
and finally discover
the warden
wasn’t keeping me in.
He was keeping me
from getting out—
So those left
could stay warm.

Because, God,
I know I’m fire.
I know my destruction.
I know my love.
I’m the heat wave
no one needed.
But everyone
wished to feel.

So, are you hearing me,
God?
Are you here in me,
Spirit?
Are you even looking at me,
Jesus?

Time will tell.
Amen.

Peace is patient; time is passing.
Discipline is tested; lessons are taught.
Notes are practiced; music is played.

Performance is measured; harmony is attained.
Focus is valued; attention is paid.
Life is served; love is free.

Beginning is left.
Rite is final.
You are readied.
Destiny is waiting.

Truth lies aligned.
Nothing is bought.
The bill is due;
Change is coming.

It is here;
Time is spent.
Space is relative.
Experience is gained.

And in it all—
everyone is currency.
The account is written,
The ledger is balanced;

Everything is lost.
The cost is exact.

The math is inevitable.
The reason remains,

I am worthy.

Morning came
unarmed.

Coffee.
Cold floor.
The news
already lies, bleeding through.

Somewhere,
a machine learned
to sound more human.

But does a voice
know what it costs
to have one?

A cell
was taught
the discipline of forgetting
what had been killing it.

A small sun
held itself
inside a room.

Particles crossed
the wall that was meant
to be final.

Time bent.

And still,

I burned with the toast.

The universe
keeps opening doors.

I keep learning
which ones
not to close
behind the ones I love.

We rewrite blood.

Overhear stars
that finished speaking
before we had language.

Teach glass
to hold light
longer than we can.

Knowledge
keeps widening.

Mercy
wears thin.

Strange,

how far
we have come

to still miss
each other.

Still,

someone needs
the door held.

Someone needs
an answer
that does not arrive
already armed.

I need that too.

There is darkness
in me
with excellent grammar.

It knows how
to conjugate pain

until every wound
sounds justified.

So I hear it

and leave
the sentence unfinished.

Outside,

the world keeps
inventing tomorrow

with yesterday’s hands.

I pour
the second cup.

Touch the shoulder
of someone I love
as they pass.

Nothing historic.

Just one small moment
the dark
does not get
to carry forward.

Maybe progress
is not measured
by how far
we can reach.

Maybe it begins

when what hurt us
reaches those same hands

and finds them
already changed.

Morning came
unarmed.

Coffee.
Cold floor.
The news
already lies, bleeding through.

Somewhere,
a machine learned
to sound more human.

But does a voice
know what it costs
to have one?

A cell
was taught
the discipline of forgetting
what had been killing it.

A small sun
held itself
inside a room.

Particles crossed
the wall that was meant
to be final.

Time bent.

And still,

I burned with the toast.

The universe
keeps opening doors.

I keep learning
which ones
not to close
behind the ones I love.

We rewrite blood.

Overhear stars
that finished speaking
before we had language.

Teach glass
to hold light
longer than we can.

Knowledge
keeps widening.

Mercy
wears thin.

Strange,

how far
we have come

to still miss
each other.

Still,

someone needs
the door held.

Someone needs
an answer
that does not arrive
already armed.

I need that too.

There is darkness
in me
with excellent grammar.

It knows how
to conjugate pain

until every wound
sounds justified.

So I hear it

and leave
the sentence unfinished.

Outside,

the world keeps
inventing tomorrow

with yesterday’s hands.

I pour
the second cup.

Touch the shoulder
of someone I love
as they pass.

Nothing historic.

Just one small moment
the dark
does not get
to carry forward.

Maybe progress
is not measured
by how far
we can reach.

Maybe it begins

when what hurt us
reaches those same hands

and finds them
already changed.

D.I.B.B.S.
Do I Bow Before Sending?

The Night struck out and
The Day pitched—
two terms,
one voice,
again,
and again.

In true poetic fashion,
the bard dubs it again.
David, the unknown, the great,
the king, the servant, Mr. Hibbard.
Dibbs on the verse.

Can’t face the light,
and none see his true face,
because, as the name is called
and as the mirror responds,
he is the light.

All show within it
and seem dim beside it,
found written into being—
muse-sheathed wit
drawn bright
from the dark that held it.

And now they ask,
“Who’s up next?”
Yet they rush,
still they fail.
By their wish, my magic
in their own
words read
to claim “Dibs”
in the sound of a
time-sung slice
cuts for motion.

Have they not remembered
who they are,
or have they not forgotten

I am,
the boomerang.

The hot arc
of a cold throw.
The stake for ward:
The claim toward worth;

Powered gems, clear pressed,
watch, my seconds never quell.
Like time, I ring bells—
then ask:

“Did you keep your eyes
open or closed
for the drawn return,
back to sender?”

I feel impacted
Written, by my blood
And heart, still beating,
The odds—I’m even
and still keep time.

Who’s ready to play?

**Feedback links:**
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/vETPlRjwyB

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/aRzZziRqHQ

Always looking

Never seen

Something speaking

Nothing screams

Always ocean-love

Never drowning-scene

Assured, a shore

The salty sea

Beach, sing a song

Sand will measure

And the music, score

-subject of the dream-

*sunset supreme*

(Literally just needed to write something; guess you could call it a download of sorts, but like..uploading from under my surface? Who knows. But yeah, “if I had eyes” Jack Johnson)