Falling

Have you ever heard a soul cry out in the night?
Falling through the dark into the unknown
Did I fall?
Did I jump, or
Was I pushed?
Always remember
The best laid plans of mice and men
Pave the path to hell
Where saints and sinners wear the same robes
And the rosebushes have thorns
While the thornbushes have roses
The urge to jump in
Where angels fear to tread
Shall surely be the death of man
Exploring the unknown with
Fight or flight's knowing guidance
We run into the night, embracing forever's possibility
With just a nudge
As light as a breeze
The course of entire lives change
For better or worse
Through thick and thin
It always comes there and back again
Time is the thief of memory
Did I fall?
Did I jump, or
Was I pushed?
Falling through the dark, into the unknown

The Audience I've Never Met

Lost!
On the road forever
     (or at least it feels like it)
Not arriving; False starts and detours
Roadblocks in the way
Like so many crumpled papers in a wastebasket
The problem is, I'm not writing for me
I'm writing for an audience I've never met
And what I want to say is so much more personal and
Not at all appropriate for polite conversation
immediately after introduction
I was inspired by the muse in the ether
Giving me the words when I've got nothing remotely interesting to say
Telling me to share my pain
Like a dirty needle in a back alley
Encouraging me to lay bare my angst
Like a catholic in a confessional
Demanding I convey what its like
To see the shame of every memory I never wanted
Reflected in your eyes
How much it hurts when your favorite poems
     (the ones that make you cry)
and the songs you sing the loudest are all echoing your pain
With the words you could never find on your own,
Bouncing off the walls of my soul
Shouting your hatred and loss
Until it becomes my own and
I live with my shame and your hatred as my neighbors
And then the words come
Hot and stinging
Painting an ugly picture that seems
Somehow hauntingly beautiful
I am equal parts excitement and fear
When I come to the Audience I've never met
As a supplicant
Begging for empathy
Pleading for understanding
From someone
Anyone who can say
You are not alone in this
Because I wonder
What would that be like?
So I relate my story through verse
Waiting for something, anything
And then I understand
I'm writing for myself  
Sharing with an audience I've never met
And if art, like beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder
Then it is my honor to share mine with
The Audience I've Never met

Intermission

I, your humble madman, began this as a project to house poetry and creative musings. I have become increasingly humbled to see that I actually have a small fan base growing, including readers in Russia, Germany and Africa. This is truly amazing and has inspired me to expand Musings of the Mad to the Book of Faces and Google Plus (URL's Below) anyone reading, anywhere, head over to those pages and give me a "Like" or a "Plus 1". What's going to be different on those pages will be insight into the ideas, additional material that was cut from final drafts, alternate endings and/or unused concepts and the like. It will be fun and interesting and who knows where this journey may lead. Thank you all!

Musings of the Mad on Facebook - Hit "Like"

Musings of the Mad on Google Plus - Give us a "+1"

A Doll of Your Muse

I can’t write today.  I couldn’t possibly.  I’ve nothing to say.

Still; there’s a meadow and it’s covered in fog up to my knees. 

Meandering through it, hands just on the surface of the mist, I can feel the sharpness sting my palms.

Wincing at the unpleasant sensation I bring them to my face to see tiny droplets of blood run from the open wound, into the mist below.

The fog is no longer docile and begins to whirl around my legs; a veritable tempest about my knees and legs, beating me.

The pain isn’t entirely unpleasant.  More like the dancing of memories of a thousand days gone by; it is intense and it demands attention.

Looking down I see the swirling gale is no longer a mist; though it still resembles one so fast is it moving.

My blood combines with the milieu and I wonder what of my flesh is left; if anything.

The fight or flight comes now and somehow I’m apart from this as well, just an observer of the physical response to the danger presented by recollection.

The mist is coalescing now, mixing with the blood to form a thick blackness that is as solid as stone and immediately recognizable; at least to me.

Next is the call.  A clarion demanding my attention and I fall to my knees.  Up to my neck in the familiar blackness; though it whips around me so fast I can no longer clearly see it.

Wrapping around me, I can feel it, so familiar, so painful and yet so comforting. It’s enigma is that it is a contradiction and it’s contradiction is that it is an enigma.

Burrowing into my skin at the base of my spine I am jolted to my feet as it writhes and wriggles its way inside demanding entry so that it may escape.

I willingly take it in; knowing what comes next and welcoming it.

Arms outstretched, hands balled into fists I open my mouth and it escapes.

Black bile erupts; travelling from all around me, through me and out again.

So violent is this experience that I don’t at first see the sludge for what it is and what shape it takes until;

Standing before me is the most perfect example of human emotion incarnate

The black mixture of mist and blood takes form around her; for it is now clearly a “her” and I can see the descriptive words of every experience I’ve ever had; every memory I never wanted and every feeling I ever did.

Her mummified beauty excites, and spurns me as she raises a finger, dripping with ink, motioning me to come hither.

I can’t write today, I say.

I couldn’t possibly.  I’ve nothing to say.

The Box

All you have to do is get into the box
That's all
Just climb in and wrap yourself up in the warm embrace of
The Standard
The Status Quo
Take comfort in the fact that YOU are just like everyone else
YOU are made to order and
Fit to be king.
All you have to do is get into the box
This box is custom designed for you
Made for only you and one size fits most
You can be yourself
See yourself
Love yourself in this box
And once you're inside you will have
Security of comformity
Because no matter what's inside this box
It's all the same to the rest of us
We love you just the way you are and
It doesn't matter to us what's inside the box
All we need to know is that we can relate
To the outside
All you have to do is get into the box
That's all
Then you get a wife
You get kids
You get a car and a job
You get a house and
You even get a
White.
Picket.
Fence.
It won't cost much
Not much at all
Just three easy payments of
Dignity
Self-Respect
and
Individuality
With an additional cost of
Confidence and Pride
But that's just to cover the shipping and handling
Just one last reminder that
Individual results may vary and we are not responsible for
Heartache, Heartbreak, Depression, Concession, Rape due to no meaning yes,
Fear of abandonment, sudden codependency,
increase in thoughts or feelings of wishing for love, Desperate loneliness
(especially in crowded rooms or social situations) feelings of unworthiness and
a Sharp increase in feelings of parnoia and/or broken promises.
All you have to do is get in the box.
All you have to do is
Fit in . . .

The box.

Musings of the Mad

Welcome to Musings of the Mad.

An ill maintained, rarely updated and deceptively literary stop in the world of wide webs. This project is the direct result of my best friend, partner, and lover asking me to write more poetry, coupled with the fact that it is National Poetry Writing Month (April 2012). The crux of the dilemma is that I am not a poet. Poetry is merely one of the forms that my art takes. I am a writer of all things. This corner of the world of wide webs is my home. It is where you, gentle reader, will see my soul. Light and dark, good and evil, love and hate . . . and every extreme in between are the fodder for my words.

I hope you enjoy it as much as it makes you uncomfortable. I hope you'll forgive false starts and incomplete stories and thoughts. After all . . . this isnt' supposed to be polished work. Remember these are the Musings of the Mad.