Still up late at night
You knew that’d never change
Aged and rearranged
But some things stay the same.
You’re still on my mind,
You just may never leave.
Quest to know what’s on your mind
What you still believe
See if just maybe
You’ve got some tricks left,
Hidden up your sleeve.
Wonder where time brought you,
Always meaning to call you.
Even though, your sound proof
Advice is to, not to.
Want me to drop you.
Forget about you, want me to move on too.
Well girl, I’d love to.
I just don’t know how to.
Can’t think without you.
Quit drinking, now too.
Got too hard to, forget not to call you.
Still up late at night
A lake of nothingness.
Pure vapor rests on the water.
Waiting for a tide, but this is no ocean.
No tropical island.
Clear of sharks, but trapped by land.
Stuck on ground.
Miles move in hours here.
Allowing the wind to create direction.
It may bring you south.
Causing constant wading,
Deep enough to drown,
Paddle against belief and destiny.
Swim to any destination.
Don’t let being confined define you.
Travel at your pace.
Can I keep blaming this on you?
Probably not anymore, huh.
A year, 365 long fucking days, I’ve been squeezing heartbreak for all it’s worth. And you’re far from aching. Healed over time while it’s just reopened wounds for me. Or maybe you’re aching just as hard, if not harder.
That’s a scary thought.
Just downright unhealthy.
You should move on, then maybe I can.
Not to a new city, you already tried that. I know it won’t change a thing.
Not to someone new, you tried that one too. I can’t seem to give a shit about another woman for long enough to try.
Just SOMEWHERE. ANYWHERE. Really, not sure anymore.
2,000 miles and still consumed with thoughts of you. 400 something days, if we’re counting, and the mere imagination of your face is still intoxicating as ever.
Just don’t get it. Tried to have plenty of people stand where you did, only to be reminded of you.
Still dreaming of you.
Still writing to you.
Still up at night alone, fighting myself into the corner about you.
Still seeing images of you.
Eyes cool blue, piercing my heart, it’s you.
You hating me so much,
Ignoring every chance to talk or touch,
Not responding when I say I still love you
Proves you just may love me too.
Somehow things got mis-communicated.
Maybe it was because trying to pull words from stone is only plausible in fairy tales.
Maybe I’m guilty of wearing by heart bare,
From artery to artery,
Action to action-hoping someone picks up vocal-less verbiage.
Maybe you just don’t care.
It’s honestly easier to blame me, at least that leaves some hope for change.
Some room for progress.
A possible way to conquer this.
Torn I stand, face to face with ideas that the latter is the truth.
It’s funny because we don’t even speak about it.
We ignore those awkward moments, replacing them with kisses as if to bandage the inevitable.
Do hearts break easier with care or something?
There really is no one I can blame this one on.
Full blown alarms alerted,
Storms grew around the little eye we’ve been nesting in.
I’ve hoped sunshine overcomes.
Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb.
Better take cover stat,
There go the sirens.
My life as a 20-something has been just that. The mind of a constant mid-life crisis forces me to act my age. Of course, this mid-life crisis has been happening since 14. Almost a decade living as a 20-something; I started underage at nightclubs, then moved on to underage drinking at the bars. They had even stopped giving us the dastardly X’s that kept minors from the nectar their parents relied on.
We learned far too young that who you know, will always override what you know.
We came every weekend, spent lots of money and brought handfuls of young, gorgeous women each time. As far as that bar in Minneapolis was concerned, they knew us. They knew us well.
Somehow, with a small deal of networking and a barrel full of luck, they gave me a VIP suite for my 19th birthday. We told them I was turning 21 and we had free drinks on the house all night. We obviously took advantage.
The night (from my hazy recollection) would have made even Tucker Max proud. It was the day my being an asshole was most definitely confirmed.
Puking violently on my date for the evening, all the while telling her to “leave me the fuck alone, bitch”, proved that. My friends inciting small-scale riots by falling off tables so hard they broke ribs only added to it. The coup-d-gratis of it all was my horrifically drunk, 19-year-old self, so excited about drinking in public, took a harsh tumble into the heavy metal posts that were being used to facilitate the smoking area.
Police were everywhere. Though I had recently been placed on probation, I didn’t give a shit. Friends had to carry my horizontally walking self out of the club and back to the car. The club never even kicked any of us out.
Smashed glasses, vomit stained shirts, after-hours White Castle sliders, dancing so hard you actually broke bones, misogynistic slurs, bare nipples, cheap but stiff vodka drinks, dodged DUI’s, late night bus trips, getting loose while trying to avoid date rape, MDMA controlled dancing, pole grinding, sweating into sickness, sharing putrid public stalls with friends, making sure someone was sober enough to get everyone home-that was my life as a 20-something.
I quickly turned into a 30-something shortly after that time. It came and went. Some say those are the best years of their lives. Hopefully that’s not true for everyone.
One thing I spend far too much time pondering is women. Specifically how will I ever find one to love that can return love? Is it even deserved? Shitting on any one that had previous hopes.
No woman will ever hurt me in that regard ever again. No matter how many walls, how many mistakes, how much douche-bag criteria I can garner.
Manic mode off, depressive mess on.
Now I’m just stuck at Long Lake Park, aka the suicidal fantasy destination zone.
I WILL make it through the night. Out of this place alive. Out of this head safe.
Killing my skin, tanning pigment in-between,
Blame it on my genes.
Setting, now it’s colder.
Slide on jeans and jacket, shoulder to shoulder.
Stabilizing mental health forever and for later,
That vitamin D savior.
Guiding our movements,
Cause little do we know, in darkness we’re clueless.
Now to watch it rise,
Time to go ahead and peel jeans from thighs.
Purgatory, the one place where everything feels despondent. Void of the pleasures, distractions and anguish. Blank white space.
Pretending to exist.
I can’t stand it, but I can’t stand to leave it, either. Real life contains the unknown, and that’s just as terrifying as anything.
Women, conversations with them seem to be the gateway to purgatory. Talking ourselves to sleep. I wind up there, seamlessly and always have trouble escaping; Feeling no threat yet no true excitement, at least not enough to properly elevate me. We spend nights talking, learning, listening, hearing, doing, seeing, being. Handfuls of verbs, enough to defeat listless adjectives and physical descriptors.
They all wear blank faces, tell similar stories, and contrary to shallow beliefs, possess beautiful unique traits. Their curves differ enough to shape them into particular molds. No one quite the same, yet you know with a little strong-arming that they’ll fit just fine.
I love the black and white but tend to hate the gray.
Each one treated as an individual, with their own goals, problems, stories, yet they each fit into a persona of a woman. Figments churned together. Their moans match the angelic choirs. Soon after the moans, I’m met by firestorms and vitriolic charred fragments of what was once hope. This is when their horns and tail begin to show.
That’s why I always run away after.