He was a cat, and lived in a pink room.

 

Living like a cat last summer,

Couldn’t afford sheets or real food,

But the room was a soft pink,

And the lumpy mattress felt softer than the bricks.

 

Living like a cat I was,

Crawling under piles of clothes to nap,

Eating cans of tuna (pocket sized),

Basking in the sun so the shade felt cooler.

 

Cat life is great for those critters,

But at 6’+ and a bundle of seething “more,”

It’s feline for some but didn’t sit right on me,

So I’ll gladly hand it back this time around.

 

Feeling a bit more canine today.

 

Though cans of tuna still roll free,

I have a forever human to lick,

Hopefully I’ll get older than a pup –

— goddamn pet control still wants to lock me up.

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The Pink Room in its Reflective Glory

#bruteforceandignorance = happy rock climber

Leap Frog, V7, Lincoln Woods – DYNO

This might truly be the only surviving video of me participating in the one activity that used to hold my mind firmly in place. Rock climbing is an obsession over which I used to fiend, dream, and bathe in.

You earn the sore hands and muscles.

There is something satisfying beyond all reckoning when you finally complete a problem that has been stumping you for days, months, or hell, years. It’s a competition against yourself.

Maybe something I’ll be able to restart as the past fades deeper into, well, the past.

(Need your Help!) Addiction & Recovery – Spoken Word, Rap, Rhythm

Looking for your word(y) contributions….

Anything and everything…spit fire or choke gargling on vomit…just a message in your own words.

 

 

Recovery Flow – 1st Spoken Word

Depths – Spoken Word, Addict Recovery Flow

(1st attempt at spoken word….written version below. Please stick past the 1:00 mark as it hits a much better rhythm and pulls together everything)

Go deep.

Depth.

Because you and I have depth.

No shallow pieces of paper whipping in the wind here.

We’re fucking mountains with roots buried in lava.

Dig deep.

Through chunks of earth.

Through underground lakes.

You and I are living statues giving statements.

Cut through miles of meat.

Let out rivers of blood.

Depth.

No 2D, weak minded, single sided bullshit here.

Find the spinning core of pressurized EVERYTHING that powers our furnace.

I’m not powered by the drive for one thing.

I’m an addict.

I’m a fucking hero.

I’m a lunatic.

I’m a fanatic.

I’m an extremist.

I’m a fatalist.

I’m a romantic.

I’m passion given wings and no name.

I run on need.

I’ve been asked what makes me tick.

Why do I do it again?

Why am I so fucking sick?

Because I live on fear,

On love, on hope, on greed, on determination, on demands, on need, on want, on confusion, on chaos, on misery, on joy, on pleasure, on excess, on more.

I live on intensity.

I breathe it.

The world spits straight fire down my throat so hot that all I can beg for is a drink to put it out,

And a shot to start the burn again.

Go deep.

Find depth.

I’m not bored.

I’m scared that the moment it stops, I’ll be less interesting to myself.

That the world won’t have a reason for me to be around.

I’ll be normal.

And I don’t understand that word.

This is the only norm I know.

The unusual.

The strange.

If I didn’t have this excuse, what would I be?

What would I call myself?

What excuse could I hide behind?

How could I explain the things I’ve done?

How would I explain my failures?

What if I didn’t fail?

What if it didn’t have to be so intense it hurt?

Even if it feels so good.

Love wouldn’t have to be so intense that it overwhelmed.

Passion so hot that nothing would ever live up to it again.

Confusion so baffling I couldn’t see a road out.

Joy so large that no laughter would fill it.

Chaos so overwhelming that the world would fall to pieces.

Pleasure so satisfying that nothing would ever be enough to replace it.

Past the screaming need for everything in spades.

For each emotion to be etched into me until I’m raw.

Way, way the fuck down there.

Beneath the lowest layers of urgency.

There is peace.

There is a quiet place that I can call part of me.

Part of the landscape of my soul.

Proof that I wasn’t always an adventurer.

Once, I was calm waters welcome moonlight to bathe across me.

I was a home where the word gentle wasn’t a foreign concept.

Where there was no race for adrenaline.

And that was okay.

All I have to do is take a breath and let myself submerge far enough to find it.

Go into the dark.

Into the deep.

Into the depths.

In The Yard

Blistering heat from a liquid sun,

That has burned up thoughts,

My eyes, their soul and my fun.

What brought on this sanguine approach?

Lost crouching and encroaching on sad joys and lost hope,

I’ve spun out my wheels into newly made glass,

Sand heated to molten,

Razing a shimmering patch.

Skidded to halt over stones constructed as ruts,

My misery shines through soaked in blood, tears, and guts.

Systematic breakdown of holy while high,

Head snapping, throat shaking, body trembling, while I –

Stagger to golden notes,

Choke quietly on the last strand of hope,

Chase goals through my screams,

Praying each daymare fades to a dream,

Balance desperately on life’s beam.

Stable for now,

Scared to say how.

Each breath shoves me closer to the edge,

Welling up my sweet desperate pledge,

To my kids and myself –

“I’ll change this life to a road followed out of hell.”

My mind and spirit can shatter,

Leave me mad as Alice’s hatter –

And though clouds block her burn,

To touch that blistering heat of our liquid hot sun,

Is to what I aspire and yearn.