Grass Stains

Grass stains, brand new khaki pants.

Lost in my thoughts trying to sympathize.

What is it like to tell the world you’re degenerate?

That you’re a Fiend.  What is it like?

I put my things away and I walked inside.

You followed me.

“Up the stairs, they’re sitting there.

It’s time to tell them, you have to tell them.

Up the stairs, they’re sitting there.”

I have never been so scared.

I acted like a man, but I was just 16,

Supporting sports teams, having peculiar wet dreams.

We argued like we had something to say.

We stole from QT cause we didn’t have money to pay.

And it haunts me to this day.

Running away only makes it feel more authentic.

I told you I was joking, but you knew that I meant it.

The Doctor said I’ve got hell in my head.

But, when I look around I don’t feel all that different.

For a while I wasn’t sure if I was a man or not.

Thank God you told me you were having the same thoughts.

“Don’t take your thoughts so seriously.

Weird shit sometimes gets up in your head.”

You probably thought I wasn’t listening,

But I clung to every word that you said.

Labor Day

Labor day 2006

The first time that I had to face it.

Greedy eyes, and a hollow heart.

Your body in somebody’s front yard.

65 miles an hour on a 25 Mile an hour road.

We thought it was an accident until we found your note.

Cut me off.

This pavement is a river.

Scrape out those thoughts.

I can’t stop.

Tell me I’m fine.  Tell me I’m alright.

Tell me it’s all in my mind.

You really gotta start hiding my keys at night.

The shortest move the smallest touch.

I’ve built such an incredible distance.

You’d find me there by that yellow street sign.

Life can change in an instant.

Every time I’m on that road.

Every time I pass that telephone pole.

I drive 65 and imagine how it feels to be a stone.

Cut me off.

This pavement is a blanket.

Scrape out those thoughts.

Keep your eyes on the road, keep your back straight.

Tell me I’m fine.  Tell me I’m alright.

Tell me it’s all in my mind.

I can’t just forget.  I can’t just leave it behind.

Cold and Empty

My old house is like a time capsule.

Every box, every piece of trash on the ground exactly where I left it.

Untouched.

The poor paint job, a reminder of my imperfect youth, my short attention span.

It’s funny how when I look back, I see a happy, joyful scene of ideal living, soft and fuzzy like one of those old 80’s family pictures.

This house is proof that my memories deceive me.

That wreath above the toilet.  I remember when I was small and swore that I’d become a vigilante street fighter when I was old enough to stare straight into the center of it.

Now, I’m looking down at it.

Dust covers everything.  No one has stepped in here for three years.

That wreath hasn’t left the wall since it was first hung.

Walking down the hall I can still see cheerios on the ground, that first morning we moved in here.  I was 3 years old.  One of my earliest memories.  My mother was fixing the light in the hallway standing on a chair.  The chair is still sitting in the kitchen.  It’s hard to believe that was almost twenty years ago.

I feel like crying and I don’t know why.  Is this sad?  Am I overcome with happiness?  Something in my soul longs for that past.  But why?  I remember being miserable.  Every night I would just pray that I could wake up and be eighteen years old.  Going off to live my own life, no longer burdened by laws and rules.

That dresser.  My friend had written all over it with a marker.  We had spray-painted it and the chair sitting next to it.  A pentagram?  We were far too young to understand what that stood for. 

And yet, here it sits a symbol of ignorance, the blissful ignorance of Childhood.

I feel like I’m dead.  That child that once slept in here is dead.  That child who won those trophies and awards on the fireplace is dead.  My brother, whose trophies sit there next to mine is dead too.  Everyone who lived in this house . . . dead.  But the house still remains, frozen in time.