You ask for a toll that I cannot pay;
You ask for a laugh that I must fake;
You ask for a face that cannot stay,
Replaced by a frown that just won’t go away.
You ask for a heart that will not break;
You ask for an act with no final refrain;
You ask for naught but rainbows and cake,
And I find it’s more than I can take.
You ask for a forecast with no rain;
You ask for me to be the same.
You ask for a life that’s not in vain;
But the answer to that, I fear, is just more pain.
Too cozy am I with that backspace;
Too quickly do I hit “delete!”
Too long do I stare at a blank page,
And lose ’til there’s nothing to beat.
Too often I long for perfection;
Too often it never is found.
Too cozy am I with that button;
But somehow, I’ll still come around.
You know that you have angry spirits
When there are holes in your walls:
These spirits haunt you even absent —
Though, they may not be so bad.
Once you get to know them,
You find they’re really only sad,
Trying to grasp upon this life
When they can only seem to drift;
But such a haunting, we so often find,
Only widens yonder rift;
And the deepest, darkest pits
Are made of our own fear to fall.
Mother, please forgive me:
I never learned how to forgive you.
I thought you were the parent…
Instead, you’re just a child too.
You were supposed to be my strength;
Instead, I have your weaknesses,
And I cannot lose my blame
Against your part in all of this.
There’s this time when you’re a child,
When your parents leave you awed;
But every hero in the end
Turns out to be just as flawed.
And if the world’s without true heroes,
Then what are we supposed to do?
But still I find you’re only human,
And I don’t know how to forgive you.
I’ve been coaxed and badgered,
Until I say it at last;
And when I do, you think it’s new,
And throw your head back to laugh.
You don’t know I’ve said it all in silence;
That every other word I think
Is something rooted deep in violence
That I only rarely ever dare to speak.
I’ve lost the belief that it matters,
And I’m afraid that I won’t get it back.
So what to do? It’s nothing new;
And my soul I feel is growing black.
I could curse back all the curses;
I could claim that I am free,
And that all those bitter words
Hold no meaning with me.
The truth is something different,
Which my mother would be vexed to know;
But some things are still bullshit
Even when pretending that it isn’t so.
Not every word is first and last;
Not every sentence makes a masterpiece.
Not everything’s the epitome of profound…
And not everything has to be.
Addendum: This is apparently my 500th blog post. Now isn’t that ironic? 500 imperfections in, and I write about not everything being perfect.
I’ve heard people tell of chasing this thing.
Sometimes, I see it in my dreams;
It seems like such a lovely place to be —
But some will chase it endlessly.
They call it far, or call it near:
Miles, they never volunteer;
Time, they never dare to guess,
And some could swear that they regress.
But this thing they swear is their true home,
This place that they will never go,
Is the place that they already were
If they turn back once they’ve gone after.
I sometimes long for older times,
Where it’s not the norm to be insane;
Where we still strive for something more
And our problems have not yet been embraced.
I suppose exaggeration in some form
Is mine — in this, and everything
But our years seem so dull and worn
And if our lot is to cast blame,
I name these years the culprit king.
Whether a want of love —
Or a want of pain —
Or just a want of anything,
Somehow these days don’t seem the same
As the tameless time of which we dream.
So still I wish for older times;
For challenges I can face.
Perhaps to fail, at least to try —
But something different than this place.
A pageless book you call your own;
A pen, saved for the last
Until a time that you can call your home,
And burn away your unwritten past.
A cover, written with your name,
To be the story of your life.
But the pages — oh it’s such a shame,
For they knew nothing but the knife.
A true villain’s a villain
With tears in her eyes,
Where with every step that’s taken
Another part of her dies
And she knows it and she fears
But still it disappears,
Replaced with spite and rage;
A cage for yet another cage.
But the choice still is made…
And if gnawing on the bars
Tastes even a bit like “free” —
Well then, she’s an addict
And she will not sit quietly.