Echoes.

You could trace the prints in the snow once.

And this time last year, I was laying in the snow, cold and alone with the darkness enveloping everything I could see and engulfing every last light. 

Nothing quite feels like the chilled veins, rushing the warm blood through your limbs. 

Nothing quite feels like the tension in your knuckles as the close to grasp your thin arms. 

Nothing quite feels like cold chewing on the small of your back, it was the most comfortable.

Warm breath eventually goes to ice. 

Canvas shoes can only retain so much heat as the fluid seeps through the seams. 

If I had a hood, I probably would have used it. 

-

I like to think that the church bells would have wrung for me, the echo beckoning my frigid body back home. 

But in hindsight, I am fairly aware no one even knew I was gone. 

The red in my sweatshirt bled a bit into the snow, and the blue in my jeans seemed to stick to my skin. 

I stood up that night. 

But for at least a few hours, I thought that I was never going to move again. 

As the locked joints in my knees fixed themselves under the wait of my heavy heart, my feet connected with the cold pavement. 

And I ran. 

With each step, I could hear the symphonic orchestra scream out into the night, like an anthem that was written for that moment.

The strings played the chords I had longed to hear, and I for the first time in months, I felt alive. 

The snow claws at my ears now, and my eyes can't seem to forget the flakes that touched my clean shaven face. 

Please, don't let the fragile words cut your tongue.

Because for so long, they scraped their entire way down my throat. 

But baby, just let the shards of glass in the shape of 'why' slip through your teeth. 

Breathe easy knowing that the scars on your lips are just an emblem of your strength. 

Because sometimes, I wanna scream it out, and feel the inside of my cheek be struck with the words that didn't quite make it. 

Sometimes, I wanna go back to the snow, and maybe let it numb up my lips a bit. 

Let it numb up my tongue, and my enlarged tonsils. 

Because now, now I am ready to change. 

Nelson, just because we are sad doesn't mean we aren't strong. 

And Nelson, just because we talk about the dark things doesn't mean we can see the bright ones. 

But now, I think I can hear the church bells. 

Sundays don't seem the same anymore.
I'm to angry to internalize the lessons now.
My house is strikingly similar to  a war zone that claims my peace of mind as its greatest casualty.
Most of the time I'm just alone.

When I was little, playing yahtzee or watching the Jungle Book would pacify my emotions.
Frankly when I was little life wasn't quite real yet.
And back then I never felt so empty.

There is a gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be.
Construction paper and tape don't quite do the job.
I haven't learned how to sew a heart out of the yarn yet.
Sometimes I think I feel it beat once or twice,
but I think it's really just the empty emotions dripping into the cavity.

what went wrong?

Did I use the wrong recipe?
Did I mix to much hate into an already worn heart?
Did I pour in to much love all at once?

Right now this life, this existence, it is so unbearably overwhelming.
The algorithms don't seem to find the solution either.
No one gave me the vocabulary list that explained how I feel.

-

No one taught me what life is. 

-

I feel like my dreams are just clawing away at the back of my ribs, occupying the place that my heart left. 

Inches away from seeing the beautiful hues of the sky, 

inches away from feeling the crisp winter air bite at their cheeks, 

inches away from exposing themselves to me. 

Is there a brain transplant surgery?

Too often have I felt that mine hasn't followed the correct direction. 

Is it possible to induce amnesia? 

There are to many things I wish I could forget.

Can I use the scars on my hands to draw the line?

Because too many of you have crossed it. 

Where is the place that me and her can just breathe the same clear oxygen and not feel so shackled?

I would definitely love to go there. 

One day, Sundays aren't going to hurt so bad. 

preaching to the choir.

how to stay strong.

If you looked into my heart, amongst the blood, you would see the tears.

These tears don't ever find their way to my eyes, and they can't seem to run down my cheeks like the rivers I skipped rocks in as a child. 

And like a practiced rhythm, my heart still beats. 

So please, be like every other 'elder' in my life, and tell me how I can be strong. 

By now, it must be true. 

So excuse me as I don't tell you how to be strong, 

I will just defer you to _________ and _________.

------------------

On Thursday, my beanie came apart, split at the top.

Friday, so did my mind. As the thread came apart one thread at a time, so did my sanity. 

Once my sanity hit the floor, so did my heart.

The rhythm stopped, the melody ceased.
And maybe I'm just preaching to the choir,
but y'all suck.

No, I'm sorry.
I have to see you all again tomorrow, so let me try again.
Nah y'all still suck.
And even though the leaves are changing hues, and even though my lawn is deceased, I'm losing it.
No matter how many songs I write trying to regain just a small portion of my consciousness, with every note I procure, I lose myself further.

-

I'm sorry, I'm supposed to tell you how to stay strong.
I just can't keep my eyes open, I just can't keep cutting away at the things that make me weak.

So save your scissors.

But here we go, here's what I've got:
If you wanna be strong,
you gotta cry a bit, just so that you know that you're actually alive still;
you gotta fall a few times, and scuff up your pale knees;
you gotta sit through the constant berating of your choices;
you gotta just spend one day laying exposed in the rain;
you gotta be cold, just once;
Now take all of that, and write it all down.
As the ink seeps into the paper,
                             .
(well that last part is up to you)

Invincible

Before I was strong, I was superman. 

But now, now that I've learned that superman has to have black hair, I've given up. 

And superman, doesn't he have to be tall?

Plus, isn't he invincible?

-

I still have the cape.

-

But I'm here now. 

And I have brown hair. 

And I am 5 feet 8 inches.

And actually, I'm broken.

If I put the cape around my neck, I'm afraid that the velcro wouldn't meet, and the fabric would flutter to the ground. 

I had to grow up way to fast.

I had to wake up to a world that wasn't fit for supermen anymore.

So take me back. 

Because before I was strong, I was superman. 

And before I could fly, I would run as fast as my small legs could carry me. 

And before I could fight, I would just smile. 

And before I could feel my heart ripped from my chest as the ones I loved fell from all around me, 

I was learning how to say mom. 

Cling

Let me live in a world of black and white,
So that when I bleed my emotions the crimson will just fade to gray.
And the gray will fade to black.
And the black will forget.

Without color, maybe for a moment the dying leaves wouldn't be so ugly.
And maybe the dying hearts, too.
If the sky was gray, then maybe I wouldn't be able to see the clouds, and the soft sounds of rain would come as a surprise.
Then if everything was gray, black would be that much more scary.
And white would be that much more pure.

And your eyes would be the most beautiful shade of gray.

Perhaps I could be weightless, just like blackness.
Perhaps all opposites would become reality, and I would actually enjoy sunny days.
Or perhaps it will all stay the same, and I will just fade to gray.

All the flowers would be white, and the pines black.
And the canyon would all blend,
just like the rest of my colorless emotions.

And life wouldn't be as real.

But I would like that.
Because there is one hell I haven't been able to escape, and it's now.

-

Run baby, run as fast as you can.
Run until your shoes are just strips of canvas,
and run until you find the trees.

Run to that world,
of black and white.

Words.

And what if I die tonight?

The question is rendered to be unrealistic now, but seemed so real just a short time ago. 

Listening, listening, listening to the words of the people that I should trust. 

Hearing the same thing over and over, things like, "it's just a bad day" "it's just a bad week" "it's just a bad month" "its just a bad year". 

The words, they said all the wrong things. 

It didn't matter who said them, 

the words were just wrong. 

Too long have I been reading the words of people that are dead or dying, and not the words of someone that is alive. 

And to this point, I wonder if I was dying, or if I was alive. 

I wonder if my words spoke life into you. 

I wonder if the words that come from my finger tips say the things that the words just didn't say to me. 

I just wanna be caressed and hear the words say, "hey baby, it's gonna be ok."

Sometimes I wanna hear the words say, "sit down boy and take a listen. when are you gonna do it right?"

Sometimes I wanna hear the damn words say, "you fool."

-

I wish the words could have just told me I was wrong. 

-

And as the tears slip off my cheeks and slam into the keyboard like atomic bombs, 

I wanna hear the words say "this life, it's real, and you're here"

But they haven't yet.

And sometimes I wanna hear the words say "you're alive"

But up to this point, the words haven't said a thing. 

All they've said is "you're dying"

And then it's all real again. 

"it's just a bad day"

on my Mind.

If love was a drug,

I would definitely be addicted to you. 

And on Wednesdays, I go through serious withdrawals. 

But regardless of the day, regardless of the symptoms, regardless of the rehab, you are always on my Mind. 

The songs that remind me of you, resonating like an anthem in my conscious,

bring me back to you. 

-

I hope that when you are sitting on the other side of the screen, you realize that this is for you. 

I hope that as you read, every word sinks into your pores.

Because, I think about you like my pen thinks about poetry. 

Whether you are in my arms, or 3 miles away alone in your room listening to your parents condemn you, 

You are on my mind. 

-

That red bridge on the edge of the park, that is on my mind as well. 

And the long grasses surrounded by the deep emerald pines, those are on my mind. 

The pristine crystal water flowing through our spot, it's on my mind too.
Soft melodies emitting from the strings of my guitar to the tune of the Come Home Song, those are on my mind.
The inch long sliver in my palm, unfortunately thats on my mind.
And ab workouts, those are on my mind.
Benjamin, he's on my mind too.
Descriptions of random trees only to be mercilessly teased by you, thats on my mind.
Warm Bodies, thats on my mind. Dreams of teleportation and fine-tuned abilities, those are on my mind.
Aspirations of running away from everything that we know, that is on my mind.

I think about you like my pen thinks about poetry.

-

Pouring out my soul in the park and staining the grass with my emotion, only to recede into your warm grasp, thats on my mind.
When you walked out without much speech at all, thats on my mind too.
The time we cried together on the top of the hill behind your house, fearful of the world, disheartened by my mistakes, and overwhelmed by the cold, thats on my mind.
And the time we looked over the horizon, gazing into the lights while I tried to put my life together, thats on my mind.

-

Rain.

I look forward to the rain,
to the soft solitude that it brings, to the serenity that follows.

I look forward to the rain,
to the wet jacket and the damp skin, to the frizzy hair and the humid warmth within.

I look forward to the rain,
and the sad songs that accompany it.

I look forward to the rain,
and the solum recession of my emotions with the rhythm of each drop.

For just a moment, I don't have to feel anything.
But just watch as the earth is drenched with that thing we call rain.

I look forward to the rain,
and the ominous clouds that overlook my imperfections.
and to the color being washed away,
leaving mostly everything grey.

-

I find more beauty in those things that stay colorful.
In those things that stay pristine even though the objects around it fade away.
I just wish I could be so resilient like those things.
I just wish that for once, maybe I wouldn't listen to sad songs during the rain.

But that's the just the way things are right?
That's how its supposed to be?
Maybe for once I could only look for the beauty in rain, and not the grey.

Maybe I can retain my emotions when the rain comes,
instead of watching them flutter by ever so quickly.

Maybe I can write the music to the rain.
And maybe then they wont be so sad.

Or maybe, I can just keep looking forward,
to the rain.

Space Camp

I've been staring at the blank screen for 15 minutes now. 

And thinking of how I am different has caused me some trouble. 

I've come to the undesirable conclusion that maybe, 

I'm not. 

Maybe I'm not different.

Maybe I'm not what I thought I was.

The strange music only takes you so far in being different. 

Most things only take you so far. 

And then, 

it's over. 

Yet again I find myself staring at the screen. 

The very screen that has allowed me to escape the monotonous reality that we occupy. 

The very screen that has allowed me to shed my anger in less harmless ways.

But the writing only takes me so far.

And soon, the semester will be over, 

and this blog wont mean anything to anyone not even Nelson. 

And frankly to this point I think that this blog has only meant something to me.

Because maybe, just maybe, its made me different. 

Made me different. 

-

But maybe I don't want to be.

-

Maybe I'm destined to sit behind this computer forever, writing to the blank faces on the other side of the screen that may or may not be there, just in order to be different. 

Or maybe, I'm writing to know.

To know that I'm not alone. 

To receive comfort. 

Or maybe I'm just trying to be different.  

Wander

I wandered the confines of that which we call reality. 

In search of something that would hold true. 

Ironically, what I found,

was you. 

I've fallen. 

And I can't get up. 

Lend me a hand I beg of you, I think that this time I'm truly down. 

I've struggled with this sense of loneliness and disbelief for ages now. 

I'm scared. 

I'm scared of you.

I'm scared of God. 

I'm scared of Nelson. 

But mostly God. 

Wandering is not good for me. 

I think to much about the life that I wish to live, but the same life that thus far I have fallen short. 

It is disheartening to know what others think of you. 

People say that it doesn't effect them. 

Well me, me. 

It effects me. 

And frankly at the moment I feel the weight of every comment thats been thrust upon my shoulders. 

And I'm weak. 

And most times, you are able to pull me out of it. 

This rut so to speak. 

But this time, man I feel it. 

I feel it. 

And as I wander further, I just try to not let anyone else see the tears. 

Searching for something that will hold true. 

But this time, you aren't there. 

Where you are I do not know. 

Absent in a time of endless woe.

- 

 

You don't know me. 

None of you know me. 

And I don't know you. 

And thats supposed to help isn't it?

Its supposed to make this easier?

So that I can hide behind a name that is so similar to reality that none of you are supposed to see past it?

So that I can write in peace knowing that I am safe?

-

I think I've wandered to much. 

I Love you.

Three words so dignified in our society,

yet so overused they have been rendered obsolete. 

What is the point in that?

To declare our love for one, only to be scorned by the others. 

I find it especially hard to love like that. 

But love isn't supposed to be easy is it?

I love you.

Now judge me for my emotions, I dare you. 

Judge me for feeling affection. 

Judge me. 

I feel like love is an old, beat up guitar. It transfers through many hands, through many users.

But in end, no matter how scratched it is,

it continues to make the most beautiful music. 

Maybe I don't even know what love is.

So judge me for trying as well. 

But please, allow me to just make my music as I please.

I'm just searching for the right melody to unlock the contents within my own mind.

Not yours.

Let me write the song I've always wanted to sing,

concerning love.

-

Hell, let me write an album.

-

Love is an extravagant, complex, confusing, evil, twisted part of life that I can simply not live without.

To the core I yearn for it. 

So judge me for being addicted.

So judge me for going through withdraws on occasion. 

Just let me write my album. 

- - -

Allow me to break the monotony of silence.
I was told to write in larger sentences in order to orchestrate a new rhythm.
I don't quite appreciate it.
I'm a small sentence kind of person.

Allow me to break the monotony of silence further.
I'm a junior in a senior class. Most of you would not even guess,
as you are to focused on yourself.
As I share a quiet piece with myself, I allow my mind to wonder about the workings of your infrastructure.
So what, I am smaller than you.
You would not even know.

I'm a small sentence kind of person.

I'm a small expression kind of person.

I'm just small.

Insignificant.

- - -

As you all socialize, I continue to watch.
To listen.
I dissect your identity, your insecurities, your whole being.

Maybe I'm small.

So here is a big sentence for all of you, so that I can be a big person again, so that maybe someone will notice my voice, so that I can please you, so that maybe I can conform to your big sentence society, (even though I don't want to) I will be a robot just for all of you, even though I pledged not to be.
I'm small.
Just trying to be big.

Maybe I'm small.
But you wouldn't notice.

- -

Yeah, you're ok. You're alive.
Unlike the rest of us.
Trapped inside our own consciousness
Shackled by our aspirations
Unshaken by hope.

Yeah, you're ok. You're alive.
Full of creation.
In quick pursuit of your dreams.
Not far from comfortability.
Shaken by fear.

Yeah, you're ok. You're alive.

- -

Yeah, you're ok. But I'm fine with that.

You're alive.
You're resilient.

You are the one songs are written about.
the come home song
im coming home soon song
All because you live.

Live not a life of reclusion.
Burst the bands of that life,
in which we are trapped.
Be alive.

I'd be ok with that.

Intro

Music. Music. Music.
My life is music.
Inspired by it.
Driven by it.
Contributing to it.
All my thoughts directed to it.
Journal by Jern Hayes.
A blog sculpted by it.
Music.

A song starts with an Intro,
and so ends mine.