As Long As I’m Around Nothing Bad’s Gonna Happen To You (Stand By Me)

I never say it
Taught not to
Like with Dad
And other Men

Shhhhh

Don’t bother him

No Chick Flick Moments

That’s fine

But I still have
Eight Years Old
The dead end
Guelph Lake

And
Stand By Me
Playing in the earphones
Of your Sony Walkman

I was scared that evening
8/18
The best man I’d ever known

And now I miss what
We could have had

Instead I’m still eight
Frightened
With no song
To scare away the

Dark

fire

fire in me
so happy
joy
splashing out of
my pours
for just one day

this one is mine
i claim it
i name it
i hold it like a child
holds security

Because now
i know joy
does exist without her
the one who put so
so much misery on me

that any scrap, like
a bone

‘i love you’
‘i’m yours’

i’d suck the marrow
dry

bruises that felt
like victories.
i am hurt
But I am not dead

And I will
capture
You.

Too bad there was
no you
To be
Captured

And I am left
With my
Scars
Memories of
Not
You

And yet still

I am lost

2012

A blank canvass,
Fresh intentions
All good, of course.

Somehow that one minute
Changes everything.
We now start anew
Leave the past behind.

Except that one minute
Doesn’t always erase
A year or fix the places
Where we are broken.

Sometimes not even a lifetime
Can do that.

 

And that, my friends, is my cynical poem for the start of 2012.  I want things to be different this year.  I want things to be better this year. 2011 was, at best, a horribly shitty year across the board.  2012 can only get better. Right?  If I believe it is must be true!

If only I could believe in that power of positive thinking stuff.

Nonetheless, despite my cynacism, I do have some wishes and hopes for 2012.  And I’ll even admit to some of them here, recording them for posterity.  Releasing them into the world with the vain hope that there is power in writing something down.

In 2012:

I want to move past the ever-present ache of heartbreak.

I want to stop missing people who don’t miss me.

I want to be grateful for the wonderful people in my life.

I want to not be tired.

I want to read more.

I want to be more engaged in the actual world, and not the one in my head.

I want my apartment to be neat and clean.

I want to have a relationship.

I want to be someone’s first thought.

I want to stop feeling/acting like Season 4 Sam.

I want to fall in love again.

I want someone to fall in love with me.

I want to be content.

 

Shoes

Belonging
For a moment
In the brokenness
Amongst us
You with your
Numerical scale
Of my travels &
Me with my
Understanding
Of your lies.

The bits of me
Long hidden
Rising to the surface
As if gravity
And shame
No longer held
Them down.

My safety showed
Itself in fear.
Your fear showed
Itself in cruelty.
Like Newton’s cradle
We’d attract
And repel
Never still
Never at peace

I never told you
The secret of my shoes
And you never told me
That all your silences
Where like tiny deaths

But then again
We knew
These things
Anyway
Didn’t we?

And Every Autumn is An Anniversary

The scent of fall
is on the wind
The smell of dying leaves
And reborn memories

Thoughts of the girls
Been and loved
Hurts and lies
first I loves yous

The first new hope
Rekindled in the light
Of the sun in the morning
As it hits the trees

Memories of secrets
Kept and discovered
Cigarettes
and curb-side confessions

Numerous love letters
Of multiple pages
And 160 characters
lost to time and to ether
Like the dust of the leaves
Come November

But for now
There is remembrance
Of laughter and discovery
Of the girl
In the backyard
Alone with her music

Wishing she could do more
Than smell the scent of autumn

Wishing she could bottle it.

Crazy

The thing about writing, being a writer, is that it’s dangerous.

You always have these filters through which you see the world.  You see the world through characters.  Your characters, other people’s characters, it doesn’t really matter. You’re always interpreting.  ‘How would Dean react?’  ‘What about Corey?’  There’s always a different view point.  Sometimes it’s even your own.

 

Occasionally though, I think it’s a frighteningly thin wall that separates the writer learning their character from the person who just retreats into a world that doesn’t exist.   What is that famous quote?  “I’m not crazy, but I can see it from here.”

 

If I ever get old and have dementia, I hope that I’m trapped with Sam and Dean and Cas and Bobby.  That wouldn’t be so bad.