thirteen years of poison

have led me here

a prison of thought and of body

scratching these arms and legs covered

in invisible sickness

waiting for the wounds taking so long to heal

hoping i haven’t fallen too far

to feel forgiven

however brief my peace do not forget

i did this to myself

balancing weights

on my shoulder that bare the faces

of uncles and fathers like me

those who could barely handle their liquor

and those who couldn’t keep it

from handling them

ive been too trusting of my demons

thinking them badges of honor

heart tainted with fear, with ego

and me? 

untouched for many years

driving home with blurred eyes

migraines

and yet smarter than God

still hoping to slink away from these crimes

great disappointment repeats itself

in new ways

to humble this body

bring me to my knees before a court of one

a reflection

i have long thought too much of myself

the whispers of an unsettled mind

hauntings of truths i was unable to speak

listening back to recordings of slurred speech

blurred moments of night

scenes missing from the reel

laughing faces of strangers and friends

telling you

what you missed

the words of a wife

the questions from a child

waiting for the house to quiet

before diving into oceans

swimming in glasses

and tasting their fire

the archives of my true darkness

every page written before feels false

like shields, shattered on the floor

it hurts too much to wear these words

forgiveness of myself still out of reach

morning memories reintroduce the forgotten

it is mine to own

to carry forward

dream this peace into existence

put distance between those nights and now

every day is a choice made for good

not for rage, or bitterness

start counting the moments

free of the doubt

when the mind is clear

of the whispers and want

collect and wrap them

in resolve

replace every shadow with a light

until the dark is outnumbered

and the days

no longer hurt

vivyan s+range

the language.

the whispers in the water.

what i could never say.

The knuckles make the sickest sounds
imprints of bone
decorating our safe place
a letter detailing failure
to keep my shit together
against the wall i am everything
and nothing
conversation through collision
say my piece
away from the light
take calm steps back out
continue my performance
the taste of blood is brief on the tongue
small pain self inflicted
release the tension built
in the smallest bricks
tucked between repetition
and falling arrows of productivity
stack and save
count the days before escape
sleep tired
awaken drained
restart the clock
remembering what we’ve planned
hide away the desire for silence
that dreamt up place
far from the loudest of mouths
and their oceans of words
repeat
you told me my anger reminded you of home
in the worst ways
some days the chatter is so loud
i can only speak through fists
to whichever hard surface i choose my words for
it does little in the long run
but against the wall
i am everything
and i am nothing
it will always reveal
the weakness in my argument
sing to me
how frail these bones are
taste the blood
heal the holes in my skin
pray to keep it contained somehow
better than before
repeat
i may never find that place of peace
for long
it seems to leave when i think myself too good
to regress
here i remain
taking moments to scream into the dark
please don’t blame yourself
if i ever lose my grip
i could fill this house
with what i could never say
and smash it to pieces

childhood views.

a graveyard of you

or “fear into work”

i want to talk about isolation for a bit.

its a feeling i’m becoming more familiar with as this fog continues to form in the space between my ears. i made a conscious effort to keep distracted from writing, more than that, the process of getting lost in repeating imagery, spending hours mulling over a story.  many of the major ideas that have come to me took over so much of my thoughts, i had to step away from them altogether.

for all the worry i’ve dedicated to putting work into pages only a select few may read and podcasts only a few may choose to hear, i needed space.

empty space.

it has worked for the most part. there will be more entries here about my distractions. this small corner of internet is one i’ve neglected most of all.

i will remedy this

but i wonder how many more places can i pour my isolation, this second sweat that fills my pores.

one of my distractions was a story.

science fiction.

my first attempt.

i channeled so much of my isolation into the words. i wanted those who read to feel the same disoriented feeling as my nameless drifter.

a human among creatures native to the stars, to toxic air and blinding, burning sunshine. the drifter knows a bit of their language and the creatures know just enough of his to be civil. what drives a character to take on a journey?

knowledge.

what do you wish to know?

what are you seeking?

connection.

i had gotten so deep in my tunnel vision, i forgot how to people.

for all the time in the game of life, the economy of marriage, longing. i’ve spent a long time studying those faces buried in phones in quiet moments. so much that ive become a perfect mimic.

unaware.

the faces in the office stare ahead blank, just like mine. looking at a thousand miles of promises to self. we cross in hallways, a ballet of machines. neither sides smile. we move to the ticking of the clock. i take time from the fury of the dance to pray for my daughter, for invisible hands to guide her the days that i fail to.

my drifter forgets the sound of his own language, until he hears it spoken to him.

he throws everything away to find another just like him. its been so long, he can’t remember the last human face he’d seen. he can barely remember his own face. i’ve been seeing the same words online over and over, about putting your fear into your work. i don’t believe i have a larger fear than doing an entire lifetime of work for nothing at all.

the abyss update for no man’s sky brought me back into that sprawling galaxy. i spent hours again getting lost in new oceans, the random breathing wilderness, the darkness of space. i still feel for that team of guys who created and built more and more game on top of an infinite playground and some feel it is still not enough.

between all the research done on podcasting, what already exists and what the outlier gentlemen could offer that is different, i found the simple, stark military language of jocko willink. more than the hours of talk, but the slow, drawn out reading of excerpts from soldiers past, articulating their own isolation, a savage desperation that speaks with percussive beats to dot the silence like bomb blasts. all these things rolled into my story.

more distractions to come.

i need more of this

.