Waiting Room Blues


Some of us spend our time waiting
with some expectation of
what and who’s to come.
Some of us spend our time
waiting and wasting away alone
in the waiting room where
leather chairs embrace you.


Feels like I Got Run Over by a Red Editing Pen.

Edit my life

I should have listened…
I should have listened to my best friend’s father
when he told me, with great love and affection,
“You can’t rely on people too much…
Eventually, they’re going to fail you.”
I have seen my fair share of failures from people
through these 28 years and
there are definitely nights when I tumble around
memories of those kinds of lessons learned
in my mind
like shoes left alone in a dryer.
They kick the inside of my skull like
petulant children wanting out of their rooms
because I have not yet muster the courage
to let them go
They are grounded.

I just wish I could say the same for myself.
Then maybe I could stop having dreams
that figure out my problems faster than my
mind does at its waking speed
assisted with pharmaceutical concentration tablets.
I have a prescription for them, I swear.
Obtained them legally for a treatment of my
many ill diagnoses.
I’m a mess.

And I have been a mess for longer than I ever dreamed possible
My mom always told me it takes at least half the time
you were with someone to get over the fact that they’re gone.
Well, Ma, it’s been over that period of time and part of me
still misses part of her that’s gone
At least now I can think about her with as level a head
as I can generally muster,
marching through these cold months,
waking up alone, in a cold room in a warm bed
the polarization of these simultaneous events
is enough to give me a long pause and think
about my eventual rising from my mattress and pillows,
emerging from underneath my comforters quilted by my own mother
and, some mornings, I battle the dark demons
of a depressive state
weighing all my options on whether or not I want to go to work that day.

I have only failed once because I have learned the art
of talking to myself and the effect of music
to bring my spirit back to the edge.
A friend turned me on to the Gaslight Anthem’s “Handwritten”
and It’s Brian Fallon’s guitar
that usually sinks hooks into my deadweight body
then pulls me to my feet to begin the day.

Because I can’t rely on people anymore, not really.
And I don’t think I made that decision consciously,
there’s a surge of electricity that courses through my every cell
throughout my body every time I think about social interaction.
So, while everyone is getting into relationships,
engaged, married
I’m watching old TV shows that remind me that there may be
hope in my story yet.
And in my dreams I am just a punk kid who runs from his friend
when things change.
I learned that from my subconscious today and upon waking
I reached a moment of clarity I had not seen for at least 9 months
and I’m hoping it’s the start of a better path than I’ve been walking.

I’ve been alone. A lot.
I learn my lessons the hard way.
My head must go through the brick wall
before I realize it is solid and I must burn coil marks
into my hand
Before I realize the stove cooks food (and my hand), so it must be hot
And telling one person (aside from my therapist)
all the thoughts I have and all the things that scare me,
then have that person excise themselves from your life
like a new body part ripped from its grafting site,
tearing the stitches from the skin of which it had been a part of
for over a year and a half…
Leaves a lot of wounds and, eventually, scars
And so I haven’t spoken much to anyone,
I don’t leave my apartment much
and I battle with depression like the Southern states
deal with bouts of ice.
I shut down sometimes.

And there’s so much I want to do that I can’t.
I feel like my strength has left me completely.
Hello, my name is complacency.

Neuron Crossroads [No Deal with the Devil in my Head]

DepressionA lot of people have problems admitting they see a therapist. I guess i don’t see the point in hiding it. That being said, I had a session today and my therapist said something that threw me back into my seat a little. Floored me. Like someone stepped on the gas too fast and the laws of physics forced me backwards when really I wasn’t moving as fast as the vehicle that I was riding in. I was an object at rest forgetting my seatbelt, hold on tight and keep all limbs within the confines of the car at all times.

It’s not been any easy time coping. Nothing feels right and there is no “I” in motivation… even though there is an “I” in motivation. I am not motivated, and therefore “I” am not in motivation. That I is obviously somebody else.

Anyway, she asked me if I was doing the things I like to do. You know, read, write, play music and such. I’m a creative person or thought I was. Lately, I’ve just been struggling with getting through the day and finding the will to stay awake until it’s time for bed and so when she focused on the music I told her I’d been playing guitar a little but mostly I’ve just been listening. She snapped back like a backhand slap to the face with as much gentleness as her profession requires when she said,

“No. You’re not just a participator. You’re a doer”

I sank deep into that really soft couch. I ripped a floating rib bone from my side and whittled it down to a toothpick to pick and flick the bits of that statement I was left to chew on, trying to balance my mind on the thin wire that knew she was right and I thought about myself and all the time I’m wasting away doing nothing, not being happy mostly because I feel like I lack identity. I am not real to the world around me but I can’t be myself because half the time I don’t know what that is. At least, not anymore. I’ve been swimming too long in poisoned amniotic fluid, waiting for the world to show me how to be born into what I was made to become

And I’m becoming impatient. Break the water.

The words collided with something I’ve been thinking about for days. I know, in my heart, I was meant to do something great. I like to do things, I am a doer but, when everything attempted has failed, where do you go? I am a ghost of a man staring into a mirror hoping for a glimpse of my own reflection but getting nothing but blank space. I just haven’t got the courage to rip off this sheet with two holes for eyes long enough to get a good look, thinking maybe it will tell me something other than what I already know and that’s a whole lot of nothing.

I am a shark, a great white (this has nothing to do with ego) who swims to keep himself alive, to keep water passing past these gills so I can sustain my habit of living a while longer. But when a shark stops swimming it dies. When I stop moving, well… I guess you could say that it has not been the greatest of months and I have not been the greatest of anything. My heart’s just not into it right now and I find it hard to keep moving. This time of year is always the hardest. Always.

I don’t know what to do
[Welcome to the crossroads]