All posts by Drew

Beach House

I regret this rain I gave you and certainly don’t want it back. I need my floor space, my advice and the attention I bled to mingle in the water of your dissatisfaction. I mean, I need my things back, I need my card board peace of mind and for fuck’s rotten sake, let me let myself go.

Using pots to catch rain water here is long term? Isn’t that lazy? Tellingly uninterested? I think you like this drip of water, like to think you know what’s best for you and have the ability to time travel to keep me forever confused about appearances. Most of the time you’re translucent. I can’t stand all this list making.

You make me sit on the blanket way too long thinking I’m there as long as I’m nearby. But it doesn’t work like that, I need my things around me as much as I need you to stop this time shifting, these appearances, the smell of a summer shower at the beach…

I’m finished spilling these many pots. No more water, no more time traveling, no more blurry intentions. I want you standing next to me, elbow cocked and feet pointed like a duck. It is time. I need to dry.

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Untitled – Guest Poet


Ambivalent how fate decides
Decides to make you whole or void
And your mind all but abides
setting aside, dream destroyed
I long for where you might be
Maybe I should give up, settle
Coldly touch just what I see
Not boil over, hot as a kettle
Faith is how great loves are kept
And I keep this love, I do
Carry it with a burden, I accept
The Burden of being without you

- anonymous


This reminds me of the stresses that simmer below the surface in everyone. So beautiful…

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I got it, you got your hands full

I’m waking up again, over and over, to the slow slog of passion. This pit of communication knows no time frame, no ending date and there’s no expiration like milk or eggs. I’m not hurrying this time; not obsessing on your rooftop or watching through trees, instead I wait in the kitchen for the sound of the keys jangling and the door opening.

I’m breathing air finally and can smell your confusion and dissatisfaction – that blame we get for the apocalypse, the faint sweet of your pain. I know I left you there with those groceries, with that trunk full of paper bags…I have no excuse.

These are the only emotions that evoke expression through depression; the only time I write to you. If I could connect to these emotions more regular, you’d be sick of my baggage, my adage – these are the times of our lives, year after year of unrequited- oh, who am I kidding? Engaging you is just more of my violence.

You’ve proven that my assertion of asexuality untrue, shown my isolation a ruse. You’ve talked me into confidence finally after all, I thought it was all pressure and undue measure. I’m reluctant to retreat into my coma and lies and have now begun to face my empty fridge once again.

There’s no ghosts, no peripheral shadows, no shapes – the sky is not burnt orange and the landscape not scorched and dead. I realize I made it all up and created our armageddon to keep from having to tell you that I was scared of what I would become with or without you.

Everything you carry is so heavy and I didn’t do a damn thing to help you did I? No wonder you feel so hard and have bought so many groceries. Your kitchen is stacked, your counter overflowing with the rest of our lives and I can’t stop thinking about how long I could survive in your presence.

Go ahead, bring up the groceries, I’ll get the door for you this time, I promise.

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All this fixing and still broken

Years of hard work, changing habits, examining motives, understand tendencies and using the tools I have found to make myself more whole; to help myself be an adult on the inside…all of that and more yet, I get this far only to realize there’s an enormous part of me that’s still a fucking child.

Oh how frustrating this discovery is, that I, when motivated by the right external forces, revert back to the depressive, challenged and brokenhearted kid that has dominated my life for its entire existence.

Feeling my thoughts go back to that awful rumination, that inability to see the truth and going into that place where nobody likes me, everyone hates me and all I am left with is eating worms is harrowing. Seriously though, how disheartening to realize all of this recovery has to happen on several concurrent platforms of my identity, some of which I didn’t realize were lacking. I’ve made great strides in professionalism, self-interests, socialization, friend making, appearance, expectations, planning, my money…but then to get blindsided by another plank of my person that I forgot to experience and grow is as frustrating as all hell.

Ugh! This is love? I forgot about love! How could I forget that emotion?

So here we go again, back to the slow slog of change, back to the road to recovery and once again to feeling things long dormant that must be felt and experienced while making subtle changes to get to a place where I can feel and be whole again. Thank you Universe for reminding me that my job is nowhere near finished.

And thank you to an old friend for reminding me about this part of me that I have been avoiding. You woke me up and now I can’t go back again. You brought me joy which I turned into pain, that has always been my way. Without you I’d just be in denial. Mad mad props.

Posted in (sigh), Adult Children, Rant, Zombie Life | Leave a comment

AMERICA! Bill Callahan

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tUnE-yArDs – ‘Gangsta’

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St. Vincent – Strange Mercy

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Missed your window

Yeah, what if you missed your window, woke up too late? You could start over. You could push through and yes, start again but a forty year old man isn’t suppose to be waiting on his peers, he’s suppose to be blazing his own trail and blah blah.

My generation is full of nihilists and definitely not capitalists and stuck behind the cushion of life’s couch. I managed to squeeze out but I’m still picking crumbs and lint from my hair.

When I meet someone and they seem uncomfortably hard to be around, they are probably a lot like me. I’ve also noticed there aren’t that many general personality types, behavior-wise and it is possible to predict people’s reaction more readily than I thought it would have been.

Growing up is putting aside childish things and that is true when I consider my growth, at this late stage, and how immature certain aspects of my behavior were as an adult.

I have a chronological age: 42. I also have an inner child/emotional age that I can always check by just asking myself and listening to what that inner voice tells me (the first number that pops into your head). Everyone has this ability and the ‘inner child’ knows this and will give you that number. When I was 32 and started redoing my personality, my inner voice would answer ’13′ years old. I was an emotional 13 year old.

After 10 years of good therapy and rebuilding I have hit about 28.

Posted in Adult Children, How it works, Rant, Zombie Philosophy | Leave a comment

Round and round

That fucking box fan’s shrill spinning
fat mama jokes at high speed and she’s stomping
again to the heartbeat of my paranoid fantasies.

She got that late night dust bunny dream sickness
on spotless floors and what’s more is that someone
needs a hug and I’m blamed for a world of emotions I cannot control.

Christ, did I create all this in a noise cancelling
headphone of evening disenchantment? I don’t
remember plugging that cord when I set to rotating

my mania with the outside world. Yes,
on high, on low, on semi-permeable membrane of dust –
in fur, in breeze, in yonder to semi-please I scream

at the sky for relief in these times.

Knock one time for absolution, twice
for restitution then set those fans to spinning to keep
the outside world at bay.

That fucking box fan’s shrill spinning, still winning
as drones bone down into my marrow to cover
the fear that despite all the hell fire and smoke

she might ask me for something.

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Cults – Abducted

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