journey to nowhere

like forces of nature
emotions turn us from the norm
and who has the skills
to forecast the next storm?

we're at the mercy
of what goes on inside
we think we're the captain
it's all just foolish pride

no one can navigate
the islands that dwell within
the water's too choppy
the ice a little too thin

expeditions are met
with disappointing ends
we should have listened to family
we should have followed our friends

and just live our lives
with no need for explanation
live fully and ride the waves
like the rest of the nation

but I keep making the journey
and looking for the source
the wellspring of feelings
I haven't found it of course

like searching for the famed
fabled fountain of youth
I am seeking my own
deeper inner truth

sadness

"once bitten
twice shy"
thrice bitten
rotten way to die
but I lived
and was bit again
and nipped
each time
tearing the flesh
draining the lifeblood
each time
tearing my soul
depleting my reserve
but I kept walking
through the door
like I had the answer
confident to a fault
I would fix this

how do you fix one thing
when it's actually two different things?

blind and deaf
I ignored the inner voices
and what i could see

I would repair the damage
I didn't inflict

I would repair the damage
I didn't deserve

I would repair the damage
deemed too severe

I would

keep walking through the door

I believed the words
full of deception
dishonesty
lies

I believed you again
and again
and again
again

broken records don't repeat
as often as I did

walking through the door

I dreamt of driving
straight out of town

stopping only when necessary
no destination in mind

just distance

and when i got out of the car
I walked through the door

the fights were awful
brutal
often

there were reasons for them

but I ignored the facts
I could fix it
I could be the answer
the answer to your prayers
but you didn't pray
not for me
and I kept walking through the door

day after day
the same routine
the same forced smiles
the same lies

I recall making love one night
(although to be fair,
it was having sex at that point)
and you had no energy
no enthusiasm
you lay, still, cold

later you said I repulse you
I still hear the words
I wanted to vomit
sick to my stomach
those words made me, and make me

I kept walking through the door

The times you stayed after work
and you weren't there

the excuses
the situations
the denial

massive amounts of denial

you never could just say it
you never could just speak the truth
you never wanted to hurt anyone
but you did, constantly

we sat on the front porch
and talked about what each of us would take
when we separated

but we didn't

we both kept walking through the door

you weren't happy
you were scared to tell the truth
about your feelings
that you wanted out

so you went out
again
and again
and again

the whole broken record
repeat
repeat
repeat

and it hurt
both of us
all of us

it hurt everyone

and it still does

I fight it
I say that things will get better
I convince myself that this is different

and I walk through the door

when will I open my eyes
and see the trap behind the door?

the same hole I keep falling into
like a bad dream
floating towards a bitter end
nothing to grab
nowhere can I find purchase

just adrift towards an inevitable end

I am a fool
and fools fall
right through the door
again

I never wanted it to be about me
but it was all along

we're never as good looking, smart or heroic
as we think we are

we're never as charming, or slim or good
as we set out to be

we're never quite the same image
of what we see in our minds

and when we look into the mirror
of other people's eyes

we don't like what we see
unless they are saying

what we want to hear
distorting what is real

creating the image
we hope we are

helping us achieve
the ultimate lie

Wicked

the means to the end
were manipulated by the one
trusted soul, without remorse
driven by self satisfying
delusions, reckless abandon
and wanting

beings intermingled
in heated desire
amid the tragedy

the actions
the ideas
the movements

graphic
obscene
beautiful

the emotions
the feelings
the wanting

graphic
obscene
surreal

and the one
the chosen one
self chosen

directing every nuance
indulging in every
pleasure

cedes to the
realization
that

nothing planned
nothing plotted
nothing yearned

could ever be
this good
this intense

or

wicked