control or lack thereof

 Our sense of security is only as strong as our gauge of the control we have over the things around us;

ever-wavering. Forever rippling in and out of itself in an attempt to find some balance. The scale is rapidly tipping back and forth, and we yearn for nothing more than to even out this weight. We've lost control of the things that are now beyond our grasp, so we stress and scrutinize over the things we think we can touch, though those things are just as fleeting as a watercolor painting submerged in rain. As fleeting as the last drop of sunlight as the sun dives below the horizon. As fleeting as the smoke you exhale from the final drag of your last cigarette. 

A Night and Day Trip

 An overwhelming sense of peace

washes over the tops of the trees as they

dance in the same cool breeze

that lifts my spirits.

Carrying leaves and pollen and mute colors

through the air around me as I

slowly inhale a beautiful shade of

pale orange. I let it

flow through me, calming the current of

blood coursing through my veins relentlessly.

My fingers twirl in the wind,

graceful but curious, seeking something

solid to grab hold of.

The sky looms closely to the tops of

tall buildings, threatening to collapse and

send the structures crumbling 

to the ground. All the stars hide shyly

behind the low purple clouds casting

a filmy layer of mystery and doubt across

the lid of the world.

Corners filled with darkness are

too inviting to trust;

shadows twisting and bending

at the will of any light I can find,

and I wield it as a weapon against

the unknown that whispers of swallowing me.

The Journey Where (rearranged)

Downtown in my city is well lit at night.
I watch the half-asleep buildings
and trees sporting fairy lights
melt by through the big bus windows,
through the people who stand up to get off
when we've reached their stop.
My chest is tight with anxiety and
anger and disappointment and my eyes
are tired but they still scan the streets
as we glide through them.
The sky is a deep blue velvet blanket
draped over my city,
suffocating but still beautiful, nonetheless.
I feel his eyes tearing into me
from the corner of mine
so I meet his gaze.

Snow falls heavily,
landing on the windshield of the car;
soft, wet thuds that get quickly wiped away
with the flick of the wipers.
The man driving talks loudly over the radio,
but I tune out the words -
remaining comfortably quiet in the backseat -
and listen for a melody.
The snowfall hides what I know is beyond;
vast fields of nothing,
stretching on for an eternity,
indirectly forming my personal Hell.
I strain my eyes,
hoping to catch a glimpse of
something new through the wall of white.
The passenger-side window rolls down an inch,
and I hear the flick of a lighter as
snow flurries into my face.
I lean forward and place my hand on his shoulder:
"Can I get a cigarette?"

Speeding through the night into the morning,
rippling through tunnels and
in-between mountains flawlessly.
My seat on the train is comfortable enough,
but sleep cannot find me
so my gaze averts itself from my hands to
the window on my left.
I watch - eyes glazed - as the world
seems to be slipping away.
Just as my heart begins to sink
and my mind is filled with thoughts of regret
I feel a gentle hand
slip into mine.

My limbs feel weighed down
and my sobriety has become burdensome,
clawing at my mind ravenously.
I stare out the backseat window into
the unraveling fields,
making polite conversation with the driver
here and there; a taxi from my Hell
to my city where I should be okay.
But when the chatter quiets - and I start to measure
the weight of my loneliness - I can only
feel the hole inside of me widening somehow,
as I close the distance between
me and what I now view
as a battlefield.

The Journey Where

Speeding through the night into the morning,
rippling through tunnels and
in-between mountains flawlessly.
My seat on the train is comfortable enough,
but sleep cannot find me
so my gaze averts itself from my hands to
the window on my left.
I watch - eyes glazed - as the world
seems to be slipping away.
Just as my heart begins to sink
and my mind is filled with thoughts of regret
I feel a gentle hand
slip into mine.

Snow falls heavily,
landing on the windshield of the car;
soft, wet thuds that get quickly wiped away
with the flick of the wipers.
The man driving talks loudly over the radio,
but I tune out the words -
remaining comfortably quiet in the backseat -
and listen for a melody.
The snowfall hides what I know is beyond;
vast fields of nothing,
stretching on for an eternity,
indirectly forming my personal Hell.
I strain my eyes,
hoping to catch a glimpse of
something new through the wall of white.
The passenger-side window rolls down an inch,
and I hear the flick of a lighter as
snow flurries into my face.
I lean forward and place my hand on his shoulder:
"Can I get a cigarette?"

Downtown in my city is well lit at night.
I watch the half-asleep buildings
and trees sporting fairy lights
melt by through the big bus windows,
through the people who stand up to get off
when we've reached their stop.
My chest is tight with anxiety and
anger and disappointment and my eyes
are tired but they still scan the streets
as we glide through them.
The sky is a deep blue velvet blanket
draped over my city,
suffocating but still beautiful, nonetheless.
I feel his eyes tearing into me
from the corner of mine
so I meet his gaze.

My limbs feel weighed down
and my sobriety has become burdensome,
clawing at my mind ravenously.
I stare out the backseat window into
the unraveling fields,
making polite conversation with the driver
here and there; a taxi from my Hell
to my city where I should be okay.
But when the chatter quiets - and I start to measure
the weight of my loneliness - I can only
feel the hole inside of me widening somehow,
as I close the distance between
me and what I now view
as a battlefield.

A Shell

A shell that contains all of my
insecurities, wrong-doings, and outright failures.
I packed it away,
ready to move it out of my mind.
The box that holds it bows
under the weight of this tiny,
ornament-like shell;
I can't pick it up anymore.

Instead I push it into
a dark corner in my brain,
burying it under box after box of
empty thoughts and false hope and
broken memories and completely justified
hatred that I don't want to fuel anymore;
that I don't want to
feed off of me anymore.

I build a door with three locks
to keep the boxes at bay.
But they still make me feel heavy
and sick to my stomach at times;
the ceiling swaps roles with the floor
so now I'm unsure where I stand.
Never able to tell the highs from the lows,
I try to remain exactly where the middle may be.

Continuum

I found myself standing on the edge 

of the universe when I opened my eyes 

for the first time in three years,

and the vastness beyond me beckons for me to

let it take me.

Piece by piece,

the sky chips away and falls into the twinkling abyss.

My world is falling away -

the ground beneath me quivers,

threatening to give way to my weight

and the weight of the anger and confusion that

wraps itself around me like a 

second layer of skin.

My desires write themselves across me,

vulnerable tattoos...