July 19th, 1991.

all little boys need father figures

not to be normal, or not to be sane. You wouldn’t turn on a lightswitch without seeing where all the conduits placed. You grow up with a fist full of hurt. A surge, like a missile, without hearing a ‘miss you’. But one thing is certain, nothing makes you question your integrity more knowing that your very existence is burden. You’re a burden to breathe. I was just a curious boy. Curious George. Curious Cristian. Tried to talk to friends, but the look on their faces. It hurts just to listen. A burden. “How about a counselor?”. Yeah, I know the in-and-outs. I’m a soldier. Here take my money, let me cry in your shoulder. How do you plant your feet in the mud? And how do you turn your feelings to comfort? And how do you know what you’re feeling is real and isn’t some misguided daydream, cause you’re weak, and well – younger. I’ve broken off my hearts pieces asunder. endured the most embarrassing trial and error in the world to learn how to speak to a lover. It sucks. Questions I wanted to ask. Questions that needed answers. How do you express greediness more than leaving a son? Upset cause I proceeded to ask ’em. On the cusp of 24 without never really knowing how it is to have one. Just shells of people that didn’t want to take up the task. Another week is another meek undercover. Another daydream took a plunge. Now all i wanna do is scream. I want to go into the streets and scream ’til I don’t feel any nothing. ‘Til I summon beams full of thunder, till I shutter streets full of anger. ’til my fucking teeth shatter and bust into a dozen pieces of rancor. ‘Til you see a fucking beast take refuge on the streets with an anchor, and he won’t leave til sun-up and sunsets over under. Cloverfield breach. I fucking feel mean. The form of speech “hate” leaves me unencumbered. ‘Til you fucking learn my motherfucking pain isn’t something to play with, motherfucker. There’s a bloodbath of ink on this pale sheet. I’m on a smooth pace of spilling, a new space and ceiling. Its a tragedy that I had to reduce my father figure into newspaper clippings. How my favorite ballplayer scored 30 points. There’s a new wave of emptiness intended for millenials
and I write most of everything in metaphors. Soft explanations. so the interpretation gets lost in translation, cause as long as I know what I meant. Your misconception is void, cause I felt those words when I wrote them. 100 years from now when I’m gone, children in classrooms will be dissecting my verses. With no intention or purpose. I scribbled them into quotes. A message deployed. Through rejection. Through rage. Through an affectionate ploy. An inception became a reflection of my own inevitable pain. Cause remember, for everything set in stone, there’s a knife where the edges are frayed. Irreverent. Sane. I clutch an invisible pendant made out of being ashamed. It’s like every portrait drawn of me, there’s a frown on my face. Every individual second is captured in a thousand frames. And those frames are just lost, they never see light. They’re just gray. I have nightmares of being indicted for being different. There’s a judge that looks exactly like me, handing out a sentence in vain. Bail is set at impossible, and the bailiff is me too. At my funeral, I want Beethoven’s 5th set as the prelude. Every physical sentence I mash out is obsession. I’ve invented the abstract. & what’s next is a flash. Exposure to quiet. I sit alone at the dinner table, 3 hours past supper. Spinning my index finger in the red wine. Dead silence staring into the glass, as if it’s gonna stare back up. And it doesn’t. Every masterpiece I created is crap. I feel my own perfection is lackluster. I don’t know. Impossibly hard on myself, that the quality is starting to lack. Quantity takes its place to tackle an impossible task. I’ve’ tacked on a badge of honor; for burnout. I’ve become so accustom to exhaustion that having energy gives me PTSD. My madness is bottled up, swallowed up by a flask of somber.

I already know what you’re going to say before you say it. it’s non-euphoric. and even if I were to become complacent, it would be out of boredom. What a soreness to wake up out of touch with the world. yeah, I see your pain, and I raise you my void. I’m hard-strung. I’ve coughed blood into buckets. I’ve sung songs to my lovers. It’s better to have love lost, than to…..fuck it. Making people laugh is a drug and I love it. I run out of punchlines, and realize my life was it. Feeling implicit. You need to be me to re-live it. These last two decades confined to fetal position.