"Evolution at 25" (possible draft)

I'm at the point where I accept the fact that I will carry
my memories with me in a sack wherever I go
(maybe not as heavy as lead, but carrying it nonetheless);
I can't cry for them and lure nostalgia into this mess,
since my memories are always with me.
I cannot miss them;
I mustn't.

I'm at a point where I see beyond a persons face
and I have the ability to glance at a soul.
I can chip away facades like a sculptor
and yet promise ignorance to the deceiver
with an innocent confusion of the brows.

I'm chipping away what was left of cultural tradition.
I'm accepting the fact that I'm more resilient and solitary than I thought;
not that I don't want to be around people all the time,
but more so that I can't.

I let the things that matter fester a bit more
as I savor the fleshy moments a little slower
to get the flavors the chef slaved so hard to get.
I'm quite over revenge and harboring the disease that is: hate.
Ignore it, like you would the attention-whore child
until it stops trying to make you acknowledge it
and walks away without a sound onto the next sucker
that will buy it (and there are many).
Out of sight out of mind.
And I know it to be the only formula that works.

I'm slowing down a bit, not that I was ever a fast child,
and realize speed actually makes u go slower;
for thats what the rocks in the road are for.

I'm judging myself less, since there's no such thing as regret
only the changing of your mind.
And I'll believe that until I die.

My mind works in such a fashion
that scares me sometimes,
while making me feel like an ancient proverb.
And so, sometimes I feel wise beyond the years
I'm supposed to feel at this age.
And I wonder if that's good or bad,
but I guess there's no real answer
since there's no measuring tool in life
apart from age.

I'm at a point where I realize that
all that I was taught
and all that I learned
wasn't what I was supposed to believe,
but was just intended to teach me
how to learn on my own,
at 25.

"Pointless Shaving" (inspired by Ronnie)

He stood, staring at the mirror
while it stared at him.
Without moving, he grabbed his coffee mug
and in a robotic fashion took a sip.
His mind was leaving
and who knows where it was going.
Remembering why he was there in the first place,
he started cleaning the blood-crusted crevice
on the bridge of his nose like the crispy crust of a pie.
He just stared at the crimson stiffness coagulating on his bridge.

And, still staring into the other dimension of that mirror
into a space that humans still believe is just a reflection,
he grabbed a razor.
Only moving his arms, he started shaving,
cutting the hairs like a lumberjack cutting down thousands of trees.
So he cut, and he cut, and he cut,
letting his hands move robotically
as if he was brain dead,
until he bled a drop.

And in that instant he felt lost,
felt violated,
as to who was making decisions for his actions.

The Internal Struggle

I suffer from an internal struggle.
As ordinary as it sounds, this struggle always feels abnormal.
It lies dormant for days out of the week
and then suddenly,
hurricanes come up from the ground.
And for a few other days of the week I drift among the struggle
like a lost Cuban in the middle of the sea on the way to Miami.
The pain is dull and feels like that of an aching knee
or a bruise.
At other times, it lurks out in a flash like cramp or a nail to the foot.

What is an internal struggle?
Well, an internal struggle is something private,
something personal, almost embarrassing.
But it hurts publicly and is obvious
when you catch yourself trying to hide it;
when you fake that one smile for that joke you didn't even hear;
when you catch yourself sighing too hard.
Some might think an internal struggle is just a problem we can't get rid of.
When in reality, its an infection similar to necrosis
because as long as it is an internal struggle,
its not overcome until you lose a limb; or a random piece of yourself.
In this case, you lose peace.

If ever there was the opposite of peace, I'd say
it was "the internal struggle" not war or famine.
Because all wars and man-made catastrophes
are due to one person's intimate fight.

How do you deal with it?
You can mope, drag, and dwell
without ever solving the equation that was meant for Einstein,
which is what most people do;
you can listen to your favorite thought-provoking song
and stare at the ice in your glass
until you stare so deep that you can eventually see the alcohol in your glass
evaporating into the air like breath in a frosty night.
Or
you might run away and bury your time
in the fleshy bosom of work or vice
(or maybe sex will clear my mind).

The internal struggle, is at the same time, like a drug
that makes you addicted to it like a masochist
in hopes that dwelling in it will bring some sort of absurd clarity.
But let me tell you,
fog never becomes clear by just staring at it.