stories from the Realm

I’ve been told
I take things too seriously.
I’m too mature
for my real age.
I’m oversensitive.

I know things
most people don’t admit
until their thirties,
until adulthood,
until the point at which you realize
childhood is only a refuge for immaturity.

But my emotions haven’t caught up with that part of my brain,
the part that has a plan
the part that knows in order to be strong
you must expose yourself to the depths of your own failures.

This is what growing up means.
This is how to be an adult:
fake it until the cracks show.
Someday you’ll know what you’re doing,
but not yet.

My brother wrote this poem, and I really like it, so I asked him if I could post it on my blog, and he said yes! His name is Cole. And this is his poem about love:

Love sits, perched precariously on the desk next to me
in a fresh, crisp tuxedo, sipping a martini.
He looks warm, inviting, a cheerful fellow
but beneath the innocent facade there is no sympathy.
I do not know if I want to be his friend anymore.
He is the friend who calls when you are busy,
but when all you need is a kind word, someone to talk to
he is nowhere to be found.
His words, laced with the smooth poison of persuasion
leave a bitter taste when the drug has worn off.
He has cold feet and a silver tongue-
I wonder if he is a friend at all.
And as we sulk together in silence,
he nudges me towards that girl in the black shirt.
gently at first,
harder,
harder,
harder-
But I do not want to move.
I cannot.
for if I do, he will trick me with false tales of glory and passion and romance
before pulling the rug from under my feet
but if I do not
he will forever taunt me with those two words
“what if?”
And as he sits next to me he whispers in my ears,
“what if, what if.”

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Making friends is hard.
I feel like a freshman again
or perhaps a fisherman.
I keep sending out these hooks,
waiting for someone unsuspecting to bite,
hoping I can reel them in and keep them around.

Kind of a predatory way to find companions.

I neglected my social life
to save my relationship;
now I don’t have either.
Talk about cruel irony.

I know I have to keep trying this
if I’m ever going to feel better.
But I don’t like it.
Why are the most important things
never easy?

For some reason,
right now,
I am at peace.

The future’s potential lies
on an infinite plane
of parallel truths.
Pick one and build a fortress.
Convince yourself that everything is all right.
It already is.

I hope I can hold on to this feeling
into tomorrow.

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My dad says
I need to learn
how to be friends
with myself.
I can’t decide if I appreciate
the zen-like quality of this advice
or if it’s simply a crock
of well-disguised bullshit.

If you still read this:

I miss you,
and I don’t like that we aren’t talking.
But you’re the one who said you needed space,
and I’m sick of being shot down.
This is up to you.
I’m around. You must know that.
I’m not going to offer myself up
to be skewered by your lack of interest.
So when you’re done being distant
let me know
and in return I’ll do my best
to forget that I’ve been angry.

My mom keeps telling me
things will get easier.
I try to remember her words when
I’m sitting on the floor of
an unfamiliar bathroom in Poughkeepsie
with a box of tissues to my left
and too much time on my hands
to think about the future.

I am alone.
I’m supposedly free;
In fact I have never felt more caged.

If it gets easier, when?
Does it happen before I run out of Kleenex?
Or will I also have to sacrifice my dignity
to run downstairs
and rummage through a hall closet
for a box of paper comfort
when the human kind is nowhere to be found?

why am I always
the person who’s wrong when we
argue about love?