Ramble

This morning I pried my eyelids open and began

blinking, only to see a deceased spider on the window

sill, much like the windows I wipe clean time and time again

after my skin blistering showers so I can view

my neighbor’s dying lily garden from a safe distance,

 

but don’t ask me why I think it’s beautiful or why

it makes the gears inside my brain churn about

the well-being of my own decaying body

because I don’t have an answer, and I’ll begin to think

I need to see my shrink twice a week instead

 

of once, and you’ll believe that it’s enough

to save me from myself, but frankly

I don’t think I need saving any more than you

do, so bear with me while I analyze the doomed

state of my being and visualize the toxins bursting

 

free from the cracks and scars on my hands, because

they need a release from my nervous habits that overcome

my being when I think about the cycle of life, and I begin picking

all remnants of skin left around my fingernails, or chain smoking

cigarettes in freezing weather, and I’m so predictable every time

 

life fails to pan out in any sort of a predictable

manner, although, I have been thinking more deeply as I listen

to Death Is Not The End on repeat in hopes

that Bob Dylan wrote it as a coping method for those

like me who have not completely come to terms with death, so

 

I peek out of the window at those dying

lilies for a reason, and feel as if I’m dying

with them – for a sense of validation because every single year

they die and regrow slightly different than before, but they’re

always just as breathtaking.

A Letter

Dear Human Being,

You are not a concept. Your heart beats, you breathe, you feel pain.

You’re a refugee who is discriminated against

and refused access into the United States of America, the land of the free

and the home of the brave. I write one word for this letter and erase, erase.

Erase, replace. I’m not sure what to say. “Hello” and “how are you?”

sounds absurd as your life dangles by a string.

 

What has my white skin done?

Like gazing into the midday sun for a split second, and becoming blind

for minutes on end by the outline of the circular image in your ocular

view, with traces of white reminding you of its presence. The whiteness –

it’s everywhere, disregarding the spectrum of color and continues

to wedge its degrading actions into your life, and urge you further

and further away from the white man’s world through unjustified hate:

Speak English, he demands.

Go back to where you came from, he declares.

Destroying your home with bombs, and accusing you of terrorism.

Demands, declares, destroys.

 

What happened to the colors of the rainbow? We must embrace

each wavelength our eyes perceive as colors because they are a part

of life – not to be ignored, disfavored. Because pure white contains

every color of the rainbow. And yet, this white infested world

lacks much color, while molding society like clay.

 

How can we disregard displaced human beings running from gunshots,

living in the streets, with only the clothes on their backs, and nothing

to eat? The white blinds me.

I’m sure white blinds you more when it insinuates fear as you walk into an airport.

I’m sure white blinds you when your hijab is perceived to be synonymous with Islam.

I’m sure you’re blinded when your children need a safe place to rest their weary bodies.

I’m sure your emotions overflow, when each day offers another flood of tragedy.

I’m sure the white allows your aching body to suffocate and drown, while pretending

to care. Pretending to relate. Pretending to understand.

 

What right do I have with my whiteness to feel damaged

by your affliction, when I will never understand the severity as you

have experienced it? Has privilege made the white incapable of compassion? Empathy?

Human beings are praying, while grasping their children, with every inch of their soul

in desperation to escape a world of disaster, that the white have become imperceptive of.

 

I wrote this letter to express how sorry I am. I am sorry

for the whiteness that selfishly raped your rights.

I’m sorry for the lack of concern, comfort, kindness.

I’m sorry for the self entitlement.

I’m sorry for your mother, father, brothers, and sisters.

I’m so sorry.

 

I’m sure the white light will continue to attract ignorance like moths attracted

to a porch lamp that swarm around the white light, and blinds them until death.

I wrote this letter to offer any hope that’s left – that one day, this will be a world

filled with bright, colorful light.

 

With best regards,

A Human Being

 

“H”

The dirty diesel

injects its destructive fluids

into your entire being

while your brain receptors

are fooled and

your nervous system

gives in

as the poison

deceives you.

The dirty diesel.

 

The rush –

It fills you up.

Euphoria makes you feel

alive, but only

temporarily.

Its true colors 

yellow like piss

intensely seep through

and steals all control

until you have none.

The dirty diesel.

 

Cobain said,

“I travel through a tube

and end up in your infection,”

only to be discovered dead

with three times

the lethal dose

of the deadly diesel

eating away

at his insides.

A masochistic delight.

 

The self-inflicted torture

so tempting, yet

so tormenting

purloins all sanity.

Now look in the mirror

as you tiptoe closer

and see nothing but a needle.

It speaks to you like it spoke

to Staley who swore,

“You can’t understand

a user’s mind.”

The dirty diesel.

 

Does the pain

inside your brain

take a breathtaking halt

when the diesel kicks in?

When the cordial warmth

of your skin

consumes you? Or

does reality strike

when your muscles ache

and your legs begin to shake?

Killing yourself slowly

with the dirty diesel.

 

I watched your closest friend,

and your worst enemy

suck the life

directly from your veins.

What better way

to describe

the twisted relationship

that will persistently haunt you

because you signed a deal

with the dirty diesel devil.

 

obsessive

My therapist told me to stop obsessively thinking and

said, “Whatever happens is out of your control.” Her

rational advice to my endless scatter

made me feel an urge

to start drinking.

Although thinking and drinking

turn thoughts into deep fears of sinking.

Obsessive thoughts

about the present

about the past

about the future

aid my anxiety

creeping

up until it explodes.

There is no peak, just a drop

I beg and plead with my brain

for my fears to stop.

Sometimes I wonder if it is easier

to be simply naive to worldly complications

or if part of life involves going insane

by over-analyzing to try and solve them.

Even if I solve them in my tiny,

meaningless,

powerless little brain,

nobody listens or

they see your problems as pain.

Pain is associated with suffering and

suffering does not show weakness,

it shows mental and

physical compassion and endurance.

Thoughts are dangerous, yet

they are beautiful. How

can something so beautiful twist and turn and

alter with each perception?

There I go again.

Obsessively thinking.

I must be insane.

Lonely

When you’re lonely

think about your neighbor

They might be lonely too

Our lack of feeling

can coincide

When you’re hopeless

Look at the sunset

It’s filled

with intense yearning

our thirst

can be satisfied

When you’re sleepless

close your eyes

and think

about the stars

the moon

the rain

the snow

When you’re sorrowful

think about your neighbor

They might feel sorrow too

that has no origin

and feels

as if

it stems

from nothing

We relate in abstract ways

that are different

but also

the same

When you feel lonely

sit alone

in a dark room

and feel

really feel

the empty nature

Embrace it

The darkness

is everywhere

whether we choose

to be blind

or openly acknowledge

the inevitable nothingness

of each

and every one

of us