Writing is a funny thing. There are moments where it is a meditation, a prayer, simple as breathing— deep and complete— to clear the conscious for the next day's sensory onslaught. At other times, it's a record, a document— a multi-faceted snapshot— pocketed for later to avoid Memory's insidious hide-n-seek. And at it's best, it's an orchestration of Thought— a map. Sense leading the senseless to the source of Art, by mere suggestion and shared illusion, so that we might all be disabused of Ourselves— our hands and faces pressed against an ice cold reflective glass. Writing is like some unsought conquest, a brain game, to which the intellect is challenged to the Death by the grinning mask of Life itself— with a toast and a jest. Though I may drag my feet, the gauntlet is mine, and I am inexplicably called to pick up the fight, no matter the length or cause of my retreat. And we make gains from time to time— because writing always helps us, somehow, to individually and collectively survive amid the infinite cobwebs that are always crisscrossing our subconscious mind.

#WhyWrite #Challenge #Addendum

its like too many traumas

going on at once

im running out of excuses

and words are dripping from the faucets that have become my friends

the scariest part is the not knowing

my next two steps are uncertain

im edgy and odd and off centre

the way he said youre dead broke me into pieces of ash, scattered

brain, heart, soul, chest, fingertips

musings of a mad man

the worst part of town

he made the jittering begin

he detuned the radio

and asked for the static in my ears

bubbling up underneath skin

i havent grazed my shin in so long

bruises and cuts used to be a staple

but im more steady on my feet

or maybe there are less obstacles now

or maybe they all became metaphorical

she left and suddenly i was the worst one again

never able to see the suffering i most likely caused

never ever took the blame even if the evidence was in my mouth

they mustve planted it there

they mustve planted, dodgy

she made me so mediocre

in a good way

mediocre is what we are aiming for

i wouldve killed for normalcy

The apartment, four hundred dollars a month. The oven is so small you can't bake a normal pizza in it, only those little personal pans, and half the time it decides to burn them anyway. There's a bedroom by the living room with a decently sized closet, but you have to squeeze into the angled doorway. Sometimes my jacket gets caught in the locking mechanism. My zipper fell off three weeks ago, and it's freezing outside.

My routine is mad. Wake up at 6:50 AM, groan. Microbiology at eight, anatomy and physiology at ten, organic chemistry II: the sequel at eleven. Study group for a few hours, then a chemistry recitation, one that wasn't on the original schedule but it's here to stay now, despite my futile efforts to succeed without it.

Everything is tiring. Every day I consider skipping a class, I'm reminded of how much it costs. Sometimes I skip it anyway, because there's a weariness in my bones, radiating into my chest cavity, stiffening my jaw as it atrophies my muscles. I'm not sure what it is, but it ties me to the bed just as surely as it dampens my thoughts, my feelings, my relationships.

Everything is mad. Life is mad.

But I'm alive. The thought pulls me from my apathy. I pick up my phone and text my friend, Talk later today? I hesitate, and then I make an appointment. Life is mad. But if I have anything to say about it, I'll survive it.

they called her mad

for standing up.

they turned their cheeks

and walked away.

left alone, she marched on

with peace inside her heart.

until others joined hand in hand

walking longer, faster, farther.

they called her mad

yet she only laughed.

The Madness

I have a confession

I have an obsession

A mad obsession with words

I have an obsession

I have a confession

That many will find quite absurd

I confess I am obsessed with this mess

But I’m blessed

This madness is spurred by mad words

mad men walk down wall street.

mad men drive down park.

some shoot at their targets,

far away in the dark.

mad men have mistresses.

mad men have affairs.

others, however,

will kill you right there.

mad men work on madison,

mad men have a smoke,

some men are mad men,

that will kill when provoked.

mad men create advertisements

mad men bring home big bucks.

but the wrong ones will you shoot you,

if you’re out of luck.

mad men have families,

mad men love their wives.

but the crazy ones really

just love taking lives.

mad men are normal,

mad men are sane.

but the shooters, the killers

have gone ’gainst the grain.

mad men are not over,

they will have won,

if we give them the weapon,

and hand them their gun.

Once I was a master of cards

Of games pitched by skeletons

Of odds and overs and endless bankrolls

Of three bets and percentages

Pot odds and tells

So close to Hell for almost 30 years

I would often smoke camels in the rain

with Lucifer himself

Sun rising over neon lights

Or sometimes worse

Mafia fights

Hundred dollar bills wrapped in old socks

Four AM grind until the odds

would lay naked in my favor.

Cheerio boxes and black magic

A world very few understand

The upper crust of props and shills

Old school died off and left the tricks

To the chosen few

I am one even

I am none odd

I left that game to play with you

So ante up and blow off your stack

I'm watching from the rail

we were too young to be legends but he wanted to leave his mark, so he used my skin as his canvas. i accepted. i bit my lips, plugged my ears, and closed my eyes, emptying my body of all it had to offer so it would be ripe for the harvest, ready to be coated.

his favorite color was violet. he dotted my cheeks with bursts of blue, drizzled some red in the background and let it clot. added ice to counteract the swelling as the black faded to yellow. he framed it so he was superman and i was a soundbite. his fist, my breath, speech balloons. he called it pop art.

when he wanted to keep things simple, he'd smash my teeth into a mosaic, just to kiss each piece and place them in rows and columns, rows and columns, each line etched by god. he collected the colors my gums bled in vials. he called me a stain. he would not work with pigments that had no purpose, he would not rest until my mouth decomposed to silence, until my molars aligned with the nails on the floorboards and all of my matter was squared away in boxes with walls ready to rupture.

eventually he knocked them over like dominoes and swept them to the side. cubism, he said, does not look good on you. he asked me to pose with him and i obliged. i wanted to be good for something. as we undressed, he asked me not to make a scene, told me his art was only a summary but it still had meaning, said if i thought i was more than a crude expression of reality then i was dreaming, called me a stain. he said he wished he had chosen a pigment that he didn't have to strain. he told me to detach my head from my soul and let him in, let him in, let his motifs cull. he drew his brush and began to paint, began to pant, and brushed shapes across my chest with his lips, each circle the size of my breasts, each spiral bigger than the next. he said we were an infinite pattern, an illusion.

when i had nothing left to give, he hung me up at the bar next to a portrait of a woman, bruised like a peach.