Throughout my body
Let me cut it loose
I'll feel better
I want to be free
My mind is my enemy
I feel like a freak
Take it away from me
Please set me free
This is my torch song
But it's not about love
It's about my life
That doesn't want to exist
I want to be free
I pull my hair
Into the mirror I stare
And watch this stranger age
My nerves begin to rage
Why won't you take me away
Let this soul fly free
It doesn't have a purpose
Please just let me be
I want to fall asleep
And never wake up
Please set me free
My time is up
stumble across the floor
walking on my knees
barely reaching the door
needing some air to breathe
I’ve had no contact with other humans
I’ve had no reason to leave my room
I’ve watched the television screen
Celine Dion sings her songs
they burn within my ears
goodbye is such a sad sad word
the answering machine is bl
23 messages unheard
must be my mother worrying
when will the bastard say a word?
I’ve had no food to eat
I’ve had no fluid to drink
living by the last few strings
just lead me to my room
I want to cry to lonely love songs
turn up the volume so I can hear the music
the windows are shaking
eventually to shatter
as I tip toe towards the cliff
what a beautiful view
one step closer
to another dimension
but a hand sticks out
and pulls me back
we drank wine together
we had dinner together
we watched tv together
we went to bed together
we showered together
we kissed together
we were naked together
we would never be apart
the door slams shut behind us
you take me into the room
the walls are no longer welcoming
the warmth has escaped
I shudder at the tone of your voice
I can hear the cracking of an organ
the reality is deafening
I hear nothing but silence
we went shopping together
we went bowling together
we rode bikes together
we went riding together
we would party together
we once laughed together
we always smiled together
we would never be apart
must’ve been something I said
must’ve been something I did
must’ve been…must’ve been
“it’s not you. It’s me”
we no longer see each other
we no longer speak to each other
we no longer dance with each other
we no longer touch each other
we no longer listen to each other
we no longer stare at each other
we no longer kiss each other
we are finally apart
a reminder of you
loneliness’ a brew
a vivid memory
nothing but a dream
tears are fought
anticipating a kiss
turning a trick
mistakes were made
wishing to erase
then back you came
we confronted face
and yesterday’s bliss
returned full force
as I attempted the kiss
you slammed the door
the physical womb
but you placed the seal
on a broken-hearted tomb
when they say they love you
they just want to have you
and when they have the chance to get you
they leave you
stranded in your room
sitting by the computer
waiting for an email
but it never reaches you
and days go by
and not a word
and you go insane
…until it gets quiet
you are serene
free from the world
that took you hostage
for a few forgotten words
I adore this movie. Since the first time I saw the trailer I knew I had to watch it. I never read the book, wasn't sure how a fashion designer would put it all together, but it stars Colin Firth, Julianne Moore and that yummy Matthew Goode. Oh how I fantasize about him. If only my lips were the ones kissing his.
And the cute boy from About a Boy (Nicholas Hoult) has grown up into a very handsome man. Yum yum!
The movie makes me cry every time I watch it. I see a bit of myself in George. The struggle to get up in the morning. Taking time to make myself into me, or rather the me that others expect. Readying myself to confront the world with my acting. Drinking to numb my life. Seeing the world in dull colors until someone comes along to bring short momentary shards of vibrant color.
The theme about fear in his classroom resonates. Minorities aren't minorities until they present a threat - that is they aren't a threat if they go unnoticed. I can't pretend that being gay in 2013 is fearful or unnoticed but it's still difficult.
into the air
and through my body
with magical tingles
making me touch myself
for continued pleasure
until I release
wetness on my chest
that tastes salty and sweet
Were my childhood impressions
of characters in my life
marred by my mother's imagery
fore my impression of my mother
and when I listen to those same characters
30 years later
I begin to question my mother
was she wrong
and I lived these past years
of marred imagery
distort my reality
living in this fog
that is slowly clearing
on the insanity
that plagues my mother
and saddens my existence
so I pop another pill
and smoke a cigarette
and drink a glass of wine
and create an new fog
that is self induced
but I'm not happy
and will happiness return
Darkness permeates my soul
Sunlight burns my existence
Daytime brings a boil to the essence of my veins
Nighttime is my daily fitness
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I've awaited this
Aroma of lust
Within this travel
Above all states
A sexual fate
I've awaited this
Escape from reality
Succumb 2 the taste
I've awaited this
School boy's wish
Of infinite measure
With sheer precision
State of permission
I feel as though an apology can be filled with hollow words when written on a computer screen, so I will refrain from doing so. To quote the lady Madonna - "I heard it all before".
Nonetheless, I wanted to share a few words...a short story about a young, sexy gay teacher. One day he found himself walking in the dark streets of the big city and came across a group of old, ugly women brewing something in a cauldron-like container in a secluded alleyway. They called him over and handed him a sample of chaos in a cup called life. With a sip of this brew came a neurotic sister-in-law, selfish sister, uncaring brother, manic mother, paranoia-deluded father, and a society enforcing more stringent requirements from the teachers of a continually deteroriating public education system. Needless to say, this young, sexy gay teacher seeked refuge and found it in a dark river flowing to a life of seclusion and momentary satisfactions. In due time, he realized that his refuge was also a byproduct of the chaos. Now he tries to swim his way back to normalcy and stability...and he decided to start by writing to a group of friends that he has unexcusably neglected. He understands that change and evolution are part of this chaos called life, but he didn't want to be that individual in someone's life who suddenly disappears. Does true love evolve?
They were chasing me.
They wouldn’t stop chasing me.
And they chanted, “Burn the devil child! Burn!”
And I woke up.
And I remembered every bit of that dream.
As if it was real.
Yet it wasn’t real.
Did I want it to be real?
I wanted another pill to knock me out. Wash it down with a glass of cabernet. And sleep again to live in a world that isn’t mine.
I want a world that isn’t mine.
The alarm rings telling me it’s time to get up.
I need some time to create myself in a way that others want to see me. This person who I think they want or need.
That’s very narcissistic of me.
They probably don’t care much about me. So why do I get up and take so much time to create this person who isn’t me, who isn’t happy, and who’s negligible?
I look in the mirror and I don’t recognize him anymore. He’s lifeless and aged. Where did he go? Did they catch up to him and burn him?
I have to turn away.
I can’t find the energy to create myself today.
I lie back to bed and forget that the alarm clock rang. I’ll fall back asleep hoping I never wake up.
But I always wake up making life more difficult each day.
I hear the alarm clock ring again. Why?
Oh yes, it’s his.
It’s his time to get up and ready for the world.
He passes gas as he shifts in the bed. His hand thumping the other side and he’s startled by his discovery. I’m still here.
“You’re late for work,” is all he says as he makes his way out of bed and into the bathroom for his morning ritual: a biological release, brushing of teeth and a steamy hot shower. I can smell the aroma of his body wash. It tickles my nose into a frenzied sneeze.
A rattling noise escapes the bedroom closet as he searches for today’s costume.
“Are you going into work? Can I take the car?” he asks.
I think about it and realize that I’m not in the right fr
He reminds me that it’s two days in a row. I should know better. But he’ll take the car and I can stay home. Perhaps I should use this time for penance.
His steps are loud as he walks down the stairs.
Shuffling of keys in the background noise until the door is closed shut.
A turning key – the deadbolt is locked.
I’m confined in this place.
I can lay here in bed, enjoying the silence and become one with my thoughts.
I can’t think of anything.
There’s nothing in my head right now.
There’s a pain in the centre of my chest.
A bouncing of nothingness in my head. Back-and-forth. Back-and-forth.
Please let it stop.
I inhale deeply. Then exhale. I repeat this several times.
There’s a sensation running through my body; tingles of euphoria at the surface of my skin.
I run my fingers across my skin to taste the euphoria through touch.
It feels good.
It tastes good.
I want more.
I take my clothes off and return to running my fingers across my skin: the skin of my arms, my legs, my inner thigh, my scrotum, and the tip of my penis.
This excites me.
I find myself somewhere between the conscience and unconscious.
I want to remain in this limbo.
I sense an energy enter the room.
It takes hold of my body and the euphoria erupts.
My body is in spasm.
Twice, no thrice.
And I’m left with a messy discharge.
An instant loss of euphoria.
A reminder that I’m still here.
As it were four hours ago.
I decide it’s time to get up and tend to the hunger cries of my body. As I head downstairs to the kitchen, my mind wanders into the archives of recipes that confine my head. What should I make for breakfast? I want a slice of banana bread with a spread of warm butter and la
But then I see it. The dreadful diet book he bought for us.
I need to lose weight.
He tells me I’m fat.
I need to lose weight.
He continuously reminds me I’m fat.
Take for instance last night. We went to dine with my parents. My mother compliments him on his absent ass and how he has lost weight. He decides to indulge mother in conversation that pointing out the opposite in me. How horrifying! There goes my desire to enjoy a piece of homemade tiramisu. I’ll take some home, reluctantly, because he wants some. When we arrive home, he gets ready for bed as I pour myself a night cap: 13 yo aged scotch. Yum! And a taste of the tiramisu.
I search the refrigerator for the remaining tiramisu. It’s gone. I ate the rest while he was asleep. Chasing it with more scotch. Followed by a round of two five-ounce glasses of viognier.
I settle for a bowl of blueberries, reluctant to wash them, instead bathe them in flavourless plain yogurt. A few added slivers of almond for texture and my breakfast is ready.
I forgot to set up the coffee. I head to Starbucks instead.
I haven’t showered! I haven’t brushed my teeth! My hair is a mess!
I must reconsider – do I shower and ready myself for the world for a cup of coffee?
I need my coffee.
It’s time to finally create the person the world wants me to be.
It’s six hours since I began this process. Yes it’s a struggle for me to become me because I never really am certain this is me. I make me to be the person that others want me to be.
I look into the mirror. My face is clean as is my hair. I style it with a purposeful rush. The look of my hair that seems to say “I didn’t have to bother.” Yet, it takes me a fair amount of time.
I put shirt – fitted, yet not exposing the muffin top of my torso.
Tie is in place.
Sports jacket on.
Light scarf and a pair of leather gloves.
My money and credit cards are in my pocket.
I am ready for the adventure – stepping out of my cocoon.
I put on my iPhone ear buds into my ears. Music blaring loud enough to disguise the sounds of life outside. I can see the children playing in the nearby courtyard but I can’t hear a single sound. This is pleasure for me.
I keep walking two blocks to reach my destination. Included is a lunge across King St. W. where I use the button on the crosswalk. Yet it never fails. A few busy bodies zip through walk pretending not to notice me. I wait. The cars waiting seem impatient. I can’t hear what they are saying but I am aware that they are watching me. So I flaunt my walk with a given air of superiority and this takes a lot of energy from me.
I finally arrive at the Starbucks and I can see someone going for the door at the same time as me. Do I let her go first? Do I pick up my pace and pass her. These are the queries that continuously surface in my brain. But I let them go. And I let her go first.
As I follow her into the Starbucks, I notice a very long line. I’ll need to be this person for a little while longer. Can I make? Will I need to leave?
I pop a clonazepam and look forward to its ability to bring me down. Eventually it does.
I reach the counter and am greeted with a worker who clearly has been drinking a lot of coffee this morning. He’s too chipper. I envy him.
I ask for my regular venti cup of bold coffee with room for milk. Internally, I’m debating on the slice of banana loaf. Should I? Shouldn’t I? He won’t see me eat it since he’s at work.
“I’ll take a slice of the banana loaf too,” I ask.
“Absolutely!” squeals the barista. “One slice of banana loaf for this gentleman!” he yells across the service line.
He rings my total, I offer my credit card, and the transaction is done.
I like to use my credit card because I don’t have to struggle with how much or how little I should tip. They don’t put any tip on the card and I just pretend not to carry any cash. However, once in a while, I do bring a $20 bill and place it in the cup – a thought for the many mornings that they’ve catered to me.
I take my goods to the nearest milk station. I add my bit of fat free milk so that the cup is filled to the rim. A stir with the wooden stir stick and a sip to verify its consistency and taste.
My coffee is ready.
I look back briefly at the barista and I get a sense of envy. I’d like to be him one day. A simple person who seems happy to serve others their necessary elixirs each day.
But I turn away and walk out. Coffee in one hand, banana bread in the other.
I am ready for my morning treat.
Will it help to set me free?
My phone is flashing. I know there is a message. Perhaps more than one.
I ignore it.
Avoidance makes my anxiety less at the moment but my doctor tells me it will lead to more. Fuck the doctor. I don’t want to deal with the phone calls right now!
So what should I do?
Should I sit and watch more tv of the movies on the extra paid channels?
I don’t know. I’m having a hard time making decisions. I think it’s my fault that I can’t seem to push myself out of this funk that I’m feeling.
My doctors say no. They say it’s normal for someone suffering social phobia and depression.
It’s not very clear to me how I caught this disease but everything I’m reading seems to point to my genetic makeup. So I guess Freud is always right – blame your parents. Particularly, your mother.
My mother dearest, she doesn’t understand much of what I write or say. We have a language barrier. She is an Italian immigrant who came here in 1973. Although she’s spent 39 years in an English-speaking city, she has never made the effort to fully learn the language. I, as a child of an Italian immigrant, I am first generation Canadian with language barriers of my own. I can speak my native tongue and a varied dialect of Italian. I still struggle with some English vocabulary so I try to be as direct with use of simple language. This still doesn’t help communication between my mother and I.
Thinking about her makes me want to go and get another glass of viognier. I should pause for it. Savour it. Let it reduce my inhibitions and settle my nerves.
Ok, I’m convinced. I’m having another glass of viognier. It would’ve gone very well with the left over tiramisu that I consumed last night.
I’ll set up a wine plate.
The wine goes well with the cheese.
I chase it with another pill – 15 mg of mirtazapine. That’s my cocktail of choice. Maybe it’s the tannins in the wine or the percent ethanol in the wine solution that interacts so nicely with the pill that euphoria should hit soon.
And it does.
“I want to kiss you.”
I can taste the sweetness of his lips on my tongue. We kiss fervently and he can sense my excitement as his hands wander down my pants.
“Please do,” I repeat. This time I want him to go down on me.
He smiles and keeps eye contact as he lowers himself to his knees. His face is in line with my crotch and he mouths it through the tightness of my jeans. He begins to unzip my pants.
Then the phone rings.
I am awake
Was that a dream?
It felt so real.
I have the same erection.
If I go back to sleep, will he come back?
I close my eyes and try everything I can to fall back to sleep.
But the phone keeps ringing.
I let it go to voice mail.
“Hello, you’ve reach Dick and Harry. We are unavailable to get to the phone right now. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”
“Hey it’s me calling. It’s just after six and was wondering how you were doing. A group of friends of work would like to go out for dinner to celebrate a win. You’re welcome to join us but I told them you were home sick from work. Call me in if you need anything. I’ll be home later.”
“Beep. End of message.”
I’m in bed with my head laid back on one of the pillows. My arms are stretched across and I stare into the blankness of our exposed concrete ceiling.
I have the night to myself and I’m wondering if I should I make my dream come true?
Previous PostsPlease Set Me Free, posted March 4th, 2013
withdrawl, posted February 11th, 2013
detox, posted February 9th, 2013
broken-hearted tomb, posted February 9th, 2013
a few forgotten words, posted February 9th, 2013
A Single Man - my review, posted February 4th, 2013
Cigarette Smoke, posted January 28th, 2013
Untitled, posted January 4th, 2013
Poetry from @5amWriterMan, posted December 20th, 2012
How I Feel 2nite, posted December 10th, 2012
Poem - Awaiting, posted December 5th, 2012
Email from a partially emancipated psuedo-stranger friend, posted December 5th, 2012
5 am - the first draft for part of my first novel, posted February 24th, 2012
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