First


From the moment of first awareness until death, I only get to see life from one perspective. 

It’s the same for you, no matter how empathetic you may be, no matter how understanding, you can never truly know what others think. Just what they say, what they do. All of that is interpreted by your mind, colored by your experiences, your emotions, so the truth is
there is not one TRUTH
everyone gets their own version
Knowing this doesn’t make much difference, right?  We still have to interact with each other, to see ourself. I am formless without confirmation. There is a balance to be found, between how I perceive myself, and how you see me, and in the middle lies all of human history, societal standards, religion, politics, and all the other devices invented by humans. We are taught how to act, how to pretend to be a part of the collective. We are criticized and degraded when we step outside of the accepted norms, we are punished for shining our own light, instead of dimming to the lowest common denominator.
I ask of you a simple question, without an easy answer:

Can you, will you

put yourself first on your own list?

Some will say it’s selfish, and somehow wrong. 

I wonder, if you do not put yourself first, if you always take care of another’s want before your own need, 

who will put you first? 

Is there another you, who will come to take care of your wants, while you see to someone else, and so on? 
I can only live my life,walk my path, I can only see through my eyes. 

It’s the same for you. 

I want you to just consider for a moment,

being yourself. 

I know that put up your defenses, saying that. What do I know about you? How could I say you are anything other than yourself?
What could I possibly know about hiding ?
Day by day,you bite down on the words you wanted to say. You stop yourself from showing the way you feel. You hide away that child that still lives inside you. You clamp down on the “foolish dreams” or ” silly feelings” or any of the cruel labels we put around our hearts. 
Can you understand that nobody speaks for you, if you remain silent.

Nobody else can feel your feelings, nobody else can stand up to your attackers, and degraders, and conformers, nobody is going to save you from the costume you’ve put yourself into. 
What do you look like, in your mind? In your heart? What did you want to be, when you were eight years old? When did you give up, and allow ” the rules ” to paint you to look just like everyone else?
It’s such a silly thing to say, You are unique, just like everyone else, but it’s true. 

At least, in my version of life, it’s true. 
I want you to do something today, that is only for you. Do something, say something, BE something, that is only for you. If you feel the desire, and see an opportunity, encourage someone else to do the same. 
Love ya, kid.

Speak

 They talked about what was lost, what had been taken away

They cried about broken trust and they poured out their rage

I sat in the circle wanting to fix them, not speaking

They took turns revealing wounds and scars and falling to pieces

They saw each other as safety, recognition of shared experience

I cried quietly and wanted to undo their past

They looked at me and asked the question

I couldn’t speak

I couldn’t share 

I hadn’t lost anything

I could still see the untouched, innocent, pure picture of me, in my head

I couldn’t reach him, but he wasn’t dead

So I didn’t tell them I understood, because I didn’t

I didn’t spill my hurts, my pains, my betrayals,

I was scared that they could tell the difference

If I showed my wounds

They would know that I hurt so much more for theirs

If I told my story they would hear the disregard I held for myself, they would know that I could see the hurt, but not feel it, I could remember the pain but never touch it, I could still hear the little boy crying and screaming in my mind but I couldn’t reach him to offer comfort, 

So I didn’t say anything, in that room where five teenage girls explained how they were abused, and I never explained why I was there. 

I kept my words inside and I never thought much of it, 

I couldn’t feel how hurt that boy was, 

I could feel the pain of those girls and my sisters and my friends and all the girls and women who had been hurt, I could see how they would suffer without end, and I was a boy turning into a man, I had no time to fit suffering into the plan, whatever I felt was moss growing on the other side of the wall, I know that it was there but I couldn’t reach it at all

But I could have spoken up in that room

I should have

That little boy deserved some respect

Unicorn Poop

   

When I started sharing the things I write, I had a lot to say. I would write four or seven or nine pieces a day, and at least three times a week I was discovering new parts of myself. 

I haven’t been writing as much since my sister died. 

I’ve been contemplating the balance of life. My sister was so many things to me, and so many parts of my memory are wrapped around her. In a lot of ways I worshiped her, as boys worship their mother. She was the protector, the teacher, the nurturing presence in my life. 

In a lot of ways I was angry at her, I still am. She had so much that others never get and she threw it away. She was capable of so much more than she did. She killed a lot of dreams, mostly her own. 

I saw her as a unicorn. Magical, impossible to capture, perfect. 

I was blind to the way she saw herself. 

There are lots of differing opinions about self-image. Some say that the way one perceives their self is irrelevant, some say it’s everything. 

I say that self-image can be heaven or hell, and it can change at any time. 

My sister was horribly abused and it twisted her life. My sister was wonderfully gifted and it was beautiful. 

She was a unicorn. She also had flaws. 

I married the love of my life. It was not easy, it wasn’t fated. I had to make it happen, she had to make it happen. We spent a long time apart before we were lucky enough to get it right. 

We each turned down other opportunities, we each tried other paths. We had lives apart and we have histories, separately. 

My wife is a unicorn. I am a unicorn. 

We have flaws. We have magic. We have damage. We have healing. We are devoted to our WE. We are human and we have wandering minds… We’ve both held fantasies that bring jealousy, territorialism into play. 

Balance in life doesn’t mean equality, justice, it doesn’t mean everything works out for everyone. 

Balance is the eye of the storm. All of life rages, all of life has pain or healing. All of humanity has the capability to be awful or amazing. 

I had some of the best parts of my sister. 

I saw some of the worst parts of her. 

I have most of the best parts of my wife. 

She has most of the best parts of me. 

What I have come to realize, about my sister, my wife, myself, all of the pieces of glorious magical humanity that live in my view, is that unicorns shit. 

Magical, perfect fairytale beings, out there making miracles, shitting just like other animals. 

Worship as you will, see the magic. 

Understand that flaws are present in every person. Don’t just say that you accept the flaws. Understand. Know that you have magic and you have flaws. 

My sister is dead, my wife is a person, I am a jerk sometimes. 

Balance is the eye of the storm, and remembering the wind. 

Fancy Meeting You Here

I love this piece of poetry,
and the things she writes.

The Lithium Chronicles

Sometimes the memories become too much,
and I wonder if you have locked me away
as I have you.
And if every now and again I begin kicking
through the walls of your mind,
overwhelming you,
and if I do I wonder if you quietly surrender,
or if you furiously gasp for air
when the regret takes you under, too.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

View original post

This Is What You’ll Say

I am three months and a week from my fortieth birthday and I miss my mom. 

I am the father of three crazy, beautiful, intelligent boys and I miss my grandmother. 

I am living a love story with a girl I met when I was eight years old and I miss my sister. 

I am working on being able to reconnect with my daughter and I miss my daughter. 

The other night I was talking with my wife about dying. It’s not unusual to do this, we have had rough lives and her mom died a month ago. She and I have a deep understanding of the temporary state of life and, honestly, sometimes life is rough enough for us that we each consider that it would be easier to end. 

I’m not going to kill myself. My wife isn’t going to kill herself. 

We talk. We argue. We cry together, sometimes. We care about each other, and because we each have some self-loathing we usually care more about each other than we do for ourselves. 

Sorry… I get sidetracked. 

So we’re talking, lying in bed, and I ask, 

“What will you say to the kids if I die?” 

She starts to say that she’ll tell them I loved them and they’ll get through it, and they-

“No.” I said, “What will you say to Aidan?”

Aidan is our six-year-old hurricane. He is overly emotional (like me), he is overly intellectual for his age (like I was), he is and has been over-the-top expressive and reactive to everything, all the time (like me). 

I am the only one he will listen to. I am the lifeline that pulls him in when he is flailing. I am his hope, because he knows I understand him. I am his, and he is mine and we both know that we need each other. 

So I asked my wife, “What will you tell Aidan?” 

She doesn’t know. She made me promise not to kill myself, she’s convinced that if I died she will wither up like a tomato plant in Fresno during August (it’s hot).

She doesn’t know how to get through Aidan’s maze. He doesn’t know how to interact with her. She loves him as fiercely as she can, and he loves her as insanely as any boy has loved his mother, and they clash. Two storms fighting for control, and they usually both end up very upset. 

Sorry… I digress. 

What would she say to him? 

Daddy died and now you have to figure things out yourself. All the chaotic emotion raging through your mind are now yours alone, the only one that knows the way through is gone. 

So here I am, just in case. 

Aidan, if it’s time for you to read this, then I’m not coming home. I’m sorry. 

I need you to know so many things that I didn’t get a chance to tell you. I have all of these dreams for you, so many hopes and ideas of how you will live. 

I can’t start telling you those, for two reasons. First, if I start, I’ll never stop. Second, my dreams for you aren’t big enough for you. 

You’re going to make mistakes. You will do things the wrong way. This is a necessity. Doing things the right way doesn’t teach you much, if anything at all. Don’t be afraid of being wrong. You will get stronger, smarter, better because you won’t want to do things wrong over and over. Do your best when you can. Just do… Don’t let fear of failure stop you from trying. 

I don’t regret anything I’ve done. My only regrets are things I didn’t do. Things I didn’t say. Chances I was too scared to take. Be better than that. 

Don’t let anger be your go-to reaction. Your emotions make you angry, not getting your way makes you angry, being sad or being tired or being hungry or being bored or being ignored or embarrassed or basically everything except music and candy make you angry and I’m telling you in absolute terms, this is going to hurt you. Learn to let anger slide past while your other emotions load up. If your reaction is sadness, be sad. If you’re embarrassed, smile and laugh because it makes embarrassment go away. If you’re going to be angry all of the time, you will make your life so much harder than it needs to be. 

Enjoy the little things, and chase the big things. Little joys are where happiness lives. Eat the cookie. Play the game. Laugh at the stupid joke. You can’t focus only on the big Happy. 

Set goals and work for them. You need a direction and it needs to be your choice. Find the thing that makes your heart beat faster, the thing that makes your brain feel like fire, and just do that. Act, sing, dance, create, do whatever makes you, you. Don’t get so caught up in comfortable happiness that you lose track of your path. 

Be prepared for things to hurt you but don’t worry about the hurt before it comes. You will always recover and the things that hurt deserve to hurt. 

When you love someone, all you can do is give that person your love and hope. You can’t make them into what you want them to be, you don’t get to choose who they are or how they will love you. You can decide what you will allow but you cannot make people give you what you need. 

Sleep when you’re tired, and when you wake up, get up. Don’t lay around doing nothing. It makes your mind stagnant. 

Eat when you’re hungry and when you feel you’ve had enough, stop. 

When you miss me, remember me. Think of the times we shared. Think about my smile, my laugh, my voice talking to you. Think about the way we connected. Remember the things about me that make you feel good, loved, special.

Because you are good. 

Because you are loved. 

Because you are special. 

Don’t ever, not for one moment, believe that I am gone. I am right here, thinking of you. You’re asleep and your brothers and Mom are sleeping, and it’s quiet. I’m thinking of you, and my heart is wrapped around you, and I will always be right here in this moment. 

Can you see me, son? I’m smiling, and loving you, and I will be, 

always. 

In Difference


I don’t know you. 

There’s no cheat sheet for life. We each get our own instruction manual when we’re born, but it’s written in a language we have to learn. 

I can remember a story about a boy, he grew into me. That memory is meaningless in my life, despite being the only foundation I have to define myself. 

What I know of myself today is that I am capable of things I never expected. I am talented and strong. I am expressive and openly emotional. 

Those few things don’t define me. 

I am mid-way through a life expectancy, and I have yet to figure out how I belong in my own life, beyond a very strong attachment to my current situation. 

I choose to let my emotional reactions to experiences be the prow of my ship. I cut the waters of my journey with how I feel. I direct my path by what feels right to me. 

I am secure in this choice. It suits me. 

I have been faced with opposition to my choice for as long as I have existed. Close or distant, family or friends, I have been told how wrong I am, over and over. 

I have not, I will not allow anyone else to choose my path. 

My path must be travelled by my feet. Nobody else is required to live my life. 

I don’t know you, and I don’t know how you have chosen, and with all due respect, 

I don’t give a damn what you choose. 

Your choices may impact my life. 

Mine might impact yours. 

We are not solitary islands, separated by oceans. We are interactive and interdependent in this reality. We are pieces of a global machine. 

My choices will be mine, and yours will be yours, and that is just fine with me. 

So give me your indifference, in this difference. 

We have our own lives to fuck up. 

Depression is Real and So is Ignorance

this needs to be said:
Depression is real.

The Lithium Chronicles

It’s suicide prevention month, and as most of you know, suicide is the second leading cause of death in children and teens, second to motor vehicle accidents.

Imagine my surprise when I woke up at 3am (I rarely sleep when I am beginning to swing) and went to twitter and saw the following from this ignorant fool:

Now we know that this guy is clearly lacking any sort of empathy, but my issue is that in 2017 we are still having to battle this ridiculous fucking mindset – ignorance – and with these people who have these platforms and followers who struggle with mental health themselves.

It is never okay to discount an illness, not fucking ever, that is the stuff that stops people from reaching out for help, and that is never okay.

Unkind people are usually that way because others have been unkind to them, but there is…

View original post 131 more words

One Poor Correspondent

Isolated is not a good way to be. 

Asking for reassurance from friends, I got some really wonderful feels. 

I matter, even if I can’t see it all the time. 

A poem is not just words, it’s the condensed emotions pressing into a mind through phrases that mean more than they say, it’s a slice of a soul given without a price and received without boundary. 

A poet is not just someone that writes poems… It takes a deeper disturbance in the mind. 

I don’t call myself a poet. 

I am disturbed. I am damaged. I am paying attention to every goddamned word and feeling and eye-flutter. I am reading tea leaves and watching the wind play with flower petals. 

I am trying to write a life, here. 

I am trying to feel everything. 

I am hurting myself on purpose, for the sake of…

Poetry? 

I am colossally fuckered up, in here. 

I appreciate how I seem to others. 

I am thankful for the love that floods my life, the tide that lifts all boats. 

I am also suffering greatly, for loving what has been lost. For losing what has been loved. For living a true life, and caring about the moments. 

I am also suffering from too little sleep and too much stress. 

I’ll be here, 

Even if I say goodbye. 

I promise. 

The Road Ahead

I don’t care if anyone else reads anything I write, as long as you do. 

Why post it online?

Because it makes me feel good. I like having readers and fans. I like having writer friends who think I write well. It makes me feel like my thoughts matter. 

But the truth is, if it was just you, I would still be happy. I would feel like a writer. I would still balk at being called a poet, but if you say I’m a poet, I won’t argue. 

I remember so much of you, so many times you have blown my mind, so many times you have completely misunderstood me and behaved badly, so many times you have forgiven me for being a partially broken asshole. You have been the parts of my life that I call home. 

I hear your voice, when I’m sad. In my head you say the same things that you say in real life. That I’m good. That I’m yours. That I matter, and the people that made me feel “less than” are the ones that don’t matter. 

I hear you and I feel happy. I don’t show it well, I’m always thinking too hard over things I can’t change. 

I see you and I feel happy. I try to display my happiness, for you, and somehow it always comes through tears. I’ve been so severely damaged and nothing is easy for me. I try to let freedom and happiness and glory out of my mind, for you. 

I don’t complain about much. Only you. 

I know you just read that and felt like I’m being a dick. 

My life has given me a lot to despair over, and you. I have you. I have your love and respect and devotion. I have your moods and your reticence and your secret sorrow. I have all of you, and that means you get all of me. It’s the only way I know, love. 

The way that I love you leaves a lot to be desired, I’m sure. I’m difficult and complicated and moody. I’m argumentative and confusing. I’m never just happy. I’m never just okay. I’m never just content. I’m never just talking, I’m writing and I’m chasing wisps of thought down a thousand trails. 

I’m not “just”…

And neither are you. 

You are a storm in a clear sky, a promise in a secret. You are a treasure in a hidden place, you are an army at the gate. You are an unclimbable mountain, an unfathomable mystery. You are an ancient child in a timeless smile. 

And you’ll say, I love you. You’ll say, I’m yours. You’ll say, why do you write these things and tell everyone about me? You’ll say, what’s the point of all of this? 

I answer, I exist because you need me. 

I answer, I write because you read me. 

I answer, I am because you are. 

That day at the beach you took up my burdens, that night at Lover’s Point you took my life as your own. 

The day of our wedding I gave you all I had. Every bit of anything I can possibly be is yours. Every day from that to this and beyond, until I do not exist. I am yours, and you will not be done with me and my confused, complicated heart until you are no more. 

And anyone else that reads this will form their own opinion of what we are. They’ll diagnose me and you and they’ll categorize us and they’ll minimize us. They’ll think what they will and move on. 

But nobody knows. 

It’s you, it’s me. 

Nothing else is real. 

It’s your love that makes my heart beat. It’s my courage that fuels your fire. It’s your touch that soothes me, and it’s my voice that lifts you. 

When I write to you, I feel an easy ache, I feel a complicated simplicity. I feel you in my arms. I feel your concern. 

I always want everything to be something wonderful. I suck at wonderful. It’s not my game. I always want everything to be happy. I am not sure how to do that. 

I always want quiet, and the only quiet I own is wrapped around you. You are my only peace. You are my only relief from the bullshit that I live with. 

I will never be anything but yours. 

I won’t allow it. 

I hope that you are reading this and hearing my voice, as though we’re together, not being interrupted by the kids, just your mind and mine. My voice and your heart. 

I promise to free you from your shell. 

What happens after that, I don’t know. 

I want you to be your truest self. 

With all of my love lifting you.

Eyes, Skies, Lies


 
It’s okay if you feel like these are just words on a screen, and if that obscures the obscene from your mental regime than I cannot fault your resolve and try to topple your walls, if it’s somethin strange in your neighborhood and you don’t call Ghostbusters than I’m not sure we can really connect. 
So. I see a lowered flag waving from your heart, and I want to help it fly boldly and proudly, to stand true and strong and somehow find light in private imagined darkened rooms, pre-emptively constructed tombs of doubt and despair, to climb up the ladders and fly up the stairs no matter how the stares and the glares might pierce you and demean, your challenges accepted, you are coming clean.
] tell me what you need
And I will provide
When they read of my love for her they look above her but none could ever be supreme to her she is my queen to serve and my life is what she deserves to burn if she wants fire I’m fuel, an uncontested duel of whatever you want and what I’m willing to do, but I would sell my child’s organs for you because my skies are all lies covering a thin disguise and my eyes cannot pry from locked doors and closed minds what truth in my life I should not leave behind.  
i can’t say anything anymore without thinking of how it sounds, 
 
is there a gentle touch inside us all which might propel some form emotional evolution, some type of redistribution of values and ideas which have been seen to be false; perhaps on a cold day all men shiver, and time is a package which never remains undelivered, but the hearts of all creatures are designed with a purpose, to live the next fraction of a second before your life muscles contract, every breath is gone with no guarantee of payback.
At times I think the whole world has gone crazy and at times I know there is no world or any crazy which is crazier than the thought of a placebo effect and we still won’t believe that we are what we perceive…is there any sense to any of these insane pursuits which scuff up our boots and leave us bereft, clinging to the small pieces left from the last time we loved and got broken again. 
someday all the doubts that live in my head will be silenced for good and I will believe what I cannot deny. 
Maybe.