I miss the way
that my pencil or pen
scratches into the paper
when I write a poem
 
as of two weeks ago
I hadn’t written a poem
or anything creative
since the President was elected
 
that day in deep depression
I had to write something
to commiserate with the world
on the most heartbreaking thing
 
after that day
the creative muse slipped away
I inundated myself with school
trapped my creativity with work
 
only now with an end in sight
to the years of school
I started too late
and a job I love in my grasp
 
only now with the President
so close to losing his office
and with creativity and time
allowing themselves in my life
 
only now with love around me
opportunity always emailing
and the world in turmoil
do I finally choose to create
 
to feel the pen and paper
meet in conflict
the immoveable object
the unstoppable force
 
the satisfaction of seeing words
carved onto the page
when they were nowhere
not at all long ago
 
the writing I have done
and there has been a lot
has not scratched this itch
or satisfied this soul
 
the countless hours
of reading inane texts
with content galore
that meant nothing to me
 
the names of professors
which I forgot
within days or hours
of finishing their courses
 
the miles of dry erase
that I have wiped
from the boards in my office
or stickys trashed from the wall
 
hundreds of thousands of words
millions of pen strokes
fingers smashing keys
mouse clicks to select crap I wrote
 
while I am proud
of the challenge I faced
working 40 to 80 hours
each and every week
 
while I am proud
of the struggle to maintain
good grades and full course load
semester after semester
 
I am distraught
by all of the joy
I could have created
had I allowed myself
 
what story could I have written
what poem might I have penned
how many people
could I have impacted
 
instead I abandoned it
creativity and outlet
for accomplishment and distraction
only now realizing the loss
 
I have missed this
I know I will miss it again
in the course of life
distraction always seems to win

I have a lot of stories to tell.
they’ve been collected over the years
recited at random to anyone interested
or at least feigning interest
and they often reflect life
in as interesting a way as I can shape it.
some of the stories
are adventures or anecdotes
which are worthy of their re-telling.
most are just amusing turns
of what could otherwise be
a perfectly boring page.
I developed some gift
for capturing the audience’s attention
by force of will
or command of presence
and I can turn many nothings
into interesting somethings
but I don’t really know how.
it isn’t an intentional choice.
I think I just get bored
telling people boring things
so I choose to find
and isolate
or expand on
whatever parts of an ordinary day
could be considered interesting
and I give those moments life.
if the story is well received
I bring it back with another breath
to the next person patient enough
to listen to my yarn.
refine, refine, refine
until the story is worth telling
and then… the trick is not to tell it.
don't lead with the good stuff.
let someone else bring it up
set the stage for me
hype the story to get others invested
without having to say a thing.
decline the requests
to build the anticipation
then acquiesce, give in, tell the tale.
even if the story isn’t good
after however many years
or impromptu re-tellings
people want to know more.
that allows an introvert like me
to become comfortable in a crowd.
I can use the stories
to become the center of attention
not because I want to be
but so I can comfortably deflect
all the unwanted attention
from the awkward guy
not talking to anyone
to become the charming guy
with the interesting stories.
stories shape and lead a conversation
down any path the storyteller wants.
most of my life experiences
have lent themselves to finding a path
either in or out
of any conversation
at any time
and prevent me from having to suffer
through too much social anxiety.
from theatre to poetry to authorship
motorcycling to martial arts to whiskey
or waiting tables to sales to Scrum,
I’ve tried to learn and experience
a little bit about everything
to make talking to people easier.
there is no doubt in my mind
I could walk into a room with anyone
find something they were interested in
that I could tell a story about
so I wouldn’t have to talk to them
about nothing.
no weather chats,
no “nice day, huh?”
no “so what do you do?”
not that those don’t come up
but they become so easy to deflect
when you collect stories
that when someone asks
“how are you?”
I can reply with something like:
“so far so good…
I went to the store today
saw someone without their mask
and wondered what would happen
when they tried to check out.
turns out nothing.
stood behind them in line
not one word.
it reminded me of a time when…”
then they story is mine.
no more chit-chat.
just connection and deflection
to avoid saying:
“good, you?”
then standing in silence
hoping for a way to retreat.
stories give me freedom.
I don’t have to be me.
I just have to be a bard.
performing on a small stage
not for pay or profit.
just to feel comfortable
in my own skin.

The children at the playground,
Often picked on me.

Not for anything I had done,
Just ‘cause they were mean.

My parents told me “Laugh it off.”
So laugh it off I did.

Now the children in the park,
Used my laugh to pick on me.

My parents said “Ignore them.”
So that’s just what I did.

Soon enough, I was called,
“That stupid quiet kid.”

For months and months those in the park,
Harassed and teased me.

Until I felt like I was worthless,
Until I felt like that was me…

One day I told my parents,
Of how those children made me feel.

My parents said “How can this be?”
“You’re so sweet, so smart, so nice.”

I told them that I did not know,
And that I’d done everything they’d said.

I had laughed and I’d ignored them,
But they still made me wish for death.

So my parents said “Defend Yourself.”
But what was I to do?

There were so many of them,
And I was so few.

The next time that they teased me,
I tried to tease them back.

But I had been quiet so long,
That my voice had no attack.

They teased me worse from that day on,
Their words grew worse and their hate grew strong.

My will to live weakened,
My urge to kill grew strong.

Then one day they went too far,
They used rocks and sticks.

They threw, They swung,
They yelled, I cried.

But there was nothing I could do,
I ran right home,

I closed the door,
I waited long inside.

Then one day I emerged,
A pale white but reformed shell.

I did then what I thought I’d never do,
I damned myself to Hell.

I started doing what they had done,
I made others feel much worse.

Except I was better at their evil,
You see ‘cause I was smart.

I knew what made my victims tick,
What made them stop and start.

I knew just how to make them cry,
I knew how to hurt them at their heart.

I’ll never know what happened,
To make me change my ways.

I know that nothing changed them,
They are still like that today.

I’m glad though that things did change,
Because I fear where I’d be now.

Without friends,
Without family.

Alone in an empty playground,
Without anything at all.

Sometimes I put on a mask,
And it fits so well,
That I forget who I really am.
I act through the mask,
I speak with its mouth,
My hands move as though they were his.
The mask becomes me,
And I become him,
Together we change who we are.
Often I find,
That the mask stays on,
Well after everyone’s gone.
I think aloud to myself,
“How strange,”
“None of them really know who I am.”
It would pain me sometimes to show myself,
From behind the façade,
I so casually wore.
I would be the “real me,”
My defenses all down,
And hope for accepting from all.
It was strange though,
What would happen next,
And I would always feel so rejected and sad.
These people I knew,
The ones I trusted and loved,
Those I felt comfortable showing the real me to.
They would tease me,
They couldn’t understand me,
They would walk away and it showed me that I wasn’t even worth talking to.
So my mask would go on,
That way I could forget,
And it seemed everyone else could too.
But I was wrong,
And it took me so long,
To understand why they did what they did.
You see, the mask,
The focus of the story,
Isn’t a mask at all.
Not one that can be seen at least,
And its intentions can’t be known,
The sarcasm that drips through it isn’t filtered.
So my dearest friends,
Only could see me at face value,
Mask on, or off.
They grew to know me,
As the man in the mask,
And accepted him for all of his faults.
It was only when I wasn’t that man,
When my loved ones,
Didn’t recognize who they were talking to,
It was then they reacted,
And then that they fled.
Because they believed who they saw wasn’t real.
Now I’ve learned,
And I’ve grown,
My blinders come off.
I speak one mind,
Through one set of lips,
With one desired goal.
Or, do I?
I wonder aloud to myself,
As I introspectively reflect on who I am.
No.
I realize as I hear the church bells chime twelve,
No.
Because this mask I wear,
Fits so well,
I don’t even know if its on.
Or, what if, worse yet,
Who I think I am,
Is the mask I put on.

Giving Up,
Stopped being an option.
The moment i made a choice.
Now I spend my moments,
Shouting in the face of adversity,
Egging it on,
So that once I start,
I have an enemy I made,
Hounding at my heels,
Chasing my resolve,
Slavering for a taste of my failure.
This does not mean,
I don't stumble, trip, or fall.
This does NOT mean,
I am not scared,
Of the possibility,
That I will crumble,
Like an age old tower,
On a long forgotten castle,
And become some obscure part,
Of some future success' landscape.
What it does mean,
Is that I will always,
Always,
Scramble back to my feet,
Making fast friends with my scrapes,
So that they and I,
Surviving as one,
Continue on,
Toward the goal I set my sights on,
While I was still a whole man.
As my heart breaks,
And my soul leaves tattered scraps,
On thorny bushes as I brush past,
I remind myself,
That I'm not losing myself,
To further my goal.
I am leaving behind bread crumbs,
Of positivity, light, and love,
For other people to follow,
If they choose to,
So that one day,
The fears that chased me,
Are instead,
Being chased by those chasing a dream,
Of a world where we love indiscriminately.
I'd shed every layer,
Of everything I have,
To make the world a better place,
And that,
My friends,
Is why I'll never give up.

Who am I?
How did I get this way?
And what will I be next?
When am I going to change?
And where will I be when it happens?
The magic of the questions,
Is that the answers don’t matter.
Who I am,
Is as different to me,
As it is to each man, woman, or child who meets me.
Perception is reality,
And each one of us perceived each one of us differently.
How did I get this way,
Is as relevant to ask,
As it is to ask how colors became colors,
Or smells, smells.
It is what it is,
Can’t be changed,
And probably shouldn’t be,
Even if it could be.
What will I be next?
What is the value of focusing on an impossibility?
There is no way to know,
Psychic or otherwise,
Who one is bound to be,
Be it tomorrow or a thousand tomorrows.
We all grow,
We all change,
We all learn and we adapt,
No reason to sit and predict,
Or postulate about it.
When am I going to change,
Is as simple to answer,
As now,
And now again,
And now.
It is constant,
If not imperceptible,
So why question the thing?
Where will I be?
Well why does it matter?
There is no fun,
I know,
In answering a question with a question.
But why?
Why does there have to be a time?
A place?
The world doesn’t change just because we do.
It’s always changing,
And you are too.

I’m a happy person,
I often smile,
I appreciate the little things.
I reflect deeply,
I see the good in everything,
Each day is perfect,
Each night serene,
Every season valuable,
All time worth enjoying.
I find nothing to complain about,
I help people with their problems,
I give without taking,
I respect others,
I’m polite, caring, honest.
All the pieces,
In the pie chart,
That make up who I want to be,
Are made with all the beautiful things I could find.
But somehow,
When I look at the graph I use to chart my successes,
I find it empty.
When I look into the mirror,
I don’t see an accurate reflection of who I am,
Or what I do for people.
When I look into a mirror,
It’s like looking through a window,
Into a vast expanse,
Of limitless nothingness.
Some decision I made,
Long ago,
Has stuck with me in spite of my best intentions.
No matter what I do,
To make the world a better place,
And live a better life,
I still see myself as a carbon copy,
Of a carbon copy,
Of a blank page.
Often I confuse my arbitrary emptiness as self-loathing.
I give myself speeches about how worthless,
Awful,
And inhuman I am.
But then I remember,
Suddenly,
That none of that is true.
The next day I’ll go to the store,
Pick up hats,
Ribbons,
A cake,
I’ll get decorations,
And music,
And throw myself a pity party.
Wallowing in the idea that I have never been loved,
Then I’ll remind myself that, that just isn’t the case,
I’ll think back to all the people who cared.
Family,
Friends,
Lovers.
I pretend like they don’t love me,
Because some part of who I am,
Inspires himself by overcoming adversity.
Some brave hero,
Lingering in the depths of my inner-self,
Wants to fight through the nothingness,
To come out the other side,
With a maiden on one arm,
A sword in the other,
A white stallion beneath me,
And an army of unknown fears behind me having fallen to my blade.
That hero is a boy.
His fight is a fantasy.
His enemies are imaginary.
The man who stands here today has fought them all away,
He has found his maiden,
And found her to be less than he expected,
Again and again and again.
Leading him to casually toss away notions of normalcy,
In search of a great adventure,
That lay elsewhere,
Ever elsewhere.
It’s that nothingness…
That emptiness that draws me.
If I were fulfilled,
Comfortable,
Content,
Who knows what I wouldn’t do?
If all my dreams were realistic,
I wonder how they would limit me?
I see myself as nothing,
I view my accomplishments as empty,
Because I never want to stop defining myself with positive adjectives,
And the only way I know,
To successfully push past,
The walls of discouragement I built for myself,
As a shy, lonely, reclusive boy,
Is to be a hero on the outside,
Who hates himself on the inside.

The foundation,
Of my apathy,
Is found,
In undiscovered misery.
The things,
I didn’t know,
I knew,
That bother me,
Right away,
When I awake,
Every day.
The little things,
Big things,
All the things,
Inside me,
Outside of me,
Holding down,
My best me,
Beating him,
Into pitiful passivity.
That awfulness,
Ignores my best,
Beats it’s chest,
Provokes the rest,
Disdains clarity,
Shames my vanity,
Defies comfort,
Defines my laziness,
And mostly,
Keeps me sitting,
When otherwise,
I’d be succeeding,
At anything,
My mind decided.
Now instead,
Here I stand,
Writing down,
My last words,
Of inaction,
And claiming boldly,
I’m as Mad as Hell,
And I’m Not Going to Take This
Anymore!

I don’t ever lie,
But I don’t always tell the whole truth.
I’ll say the right thing,
The accurate thing,
The honest thing,
In a way that distracts from the obvious.
You’ll think I am joking,
Or that I’m pulling your leg,
But the reality is,
I’m throwing the truth in your face.
I say things boldly.
Without remorse.
Without Care.
So you think it won’t matter,
So you’ll think I don’t care.
But I do,
And I’ll hide it,
I’ll keep it from you.
You won’t get emotion,
You won’t know my fear.
All you will see is a smile.
The truth is all you will hear.

I’ve been a martial artist,
Since I was 11.
I’ve done a little bit of everything,
Taekwondo, HapKiDo, Aikdo,
Brazilian Juijitsu, Judo, and Muay Thai.
The most common thing,
That I hear once someone finds out,
(after they ki-yah and fane being Bruce Lee)
Is “so why aren’t you a fighter?”
I always smile “who me?”
Then they’ll smile back,
“Yeah, you’re pretty big,”
“You look really strong,”
“I’ve seen how high you kick,”
“Why don’t you fight?”
Depending on where I am,
And who I’m with,
And, of course, my mood for the day,
I have different responses,
For every occasion.
I might say back arrogantly,
“What I know is too dangerous.”
My vanity may strike instead,
“I like my face the way it is.”
Perhaps my ego takes a jab,
“I’m smarter than that.”
I have dozens more,
That I can break off at a whim,
Like a professional fighter snapping a limb.
The answer,
Really,
Is simpler than that.
One that saves me less face,
And taps my confidence out.
Truth is I’m lazy.
I don’t have the work ethic to fight.
Those guys spend each day,
And each night,
In a cage or a ring,
On the track in the weight room,
Just for one thing.
They want to win.
They must to survive.
They define themselves that way.
It keeps them alive.
Because for a fighter,
The dream isn’t to hurt someone else,
It’s to be first.
Never last.
That goal is the thing,
That I’ve never had,
And I’ll never fight,
Because I don’t want it that bad.
The competition is in me.
Sportsmanship too.
But the single minded desire,
To take oneself higher,
Than everyone else in a heavily stacked,
Peer group of muscle bound,
Jackhammer fighting machines.
Is something,
In me,
That just doesn’t glean the slightest of interest.
The tiniest of motivations.
Not even an ounce,
Let alone 16,
Strapped to my wrists,
Covering fists,
Ready to prove that they are the strongest,
Above everyone else.
I’m not a fighter,
Not because I’m not good,
But because I’m not good enough,
To focus on any one thing,
Long enough to achieve it.
I don’t fight,
Because I’d rather have everyone think I can,
Without having to prove it.
I suppose I do want to keep my face the way it is,
But not because I think I’m so good looking,
That it would harm my,
Obviously non-existent,
Modeling career.
But because,
My self confidence isn’t all thanks to myself.
A lot of it comes from what other people seem to think,
Or sometimes say,
About me.
So in order to stay a rock,
I need people to think I’m a rock.
My inner monologue tends to be a vicious color commentator,
Breaking down my every move,
So I need the fans to keep asking,
“Why aren’t you a fighter?”
So that when I find myself in my corner,
Getting stitched up and iced down,
I remember that someone else thinks I’m good enough.
And,
For now,
That’s good enough for me.

I used to ride a motorcycle.
Her name was Thea.
I loved her dearly,
She was good to me,
I was good to her,
I took her for long rides,
Short rides,
Cleaned her up,
Kept her covered,
She had regular maintenance,
And she loved the sunshine.
She was my trusty steed.
One day I saddled her up,
Packed my meager things,
Began traipsing about,
For the love of adventure.
I spent twenty-one days on the road,
All of them with my lady.
Started in Baltimore,
Breezed through PA,
Stopped in Ohio,
Moved on to Michigan,
Wisconsin,
The next day was Minnesota.
Then South Dakota, Montana, Wyoming, and Idaho,
Soon it was Oregon and on to California by uncovered motor-horse.
Spent a lot of time riding up and down the CA coast,
Seeing family in LA and the San Francisco Bay,
Before settling down,
Albeit briefly,
To my new home,
In “The City.”
It was only a week,
Before things went wrong.
Thea couldn’t keep me,
Bucked me off,
In the middle of the Bay Bridge,
Sunday afternoon July 29th 2012.
Woke up in Oakland,
Face all broken,
Hands and knees scraped till clean.
Nurse asked,
“Will you ever ride again?”
“Of course” I replied,
Groggy and sleep eyed,
But resolved not to let my passion,
For taming mechanical mares,
Go away.
I refused surgery,
Didn’t take any meds,
Called up Progressive to report Thea’s death.
Didn’t know she was dead at the time,
Thought she’d pull through.
It was her first accident,
I was mostly fine,
Hoped she would be too.
But months went by and she didn’t come back,
I was told she needed to be put down.
I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye,
Just got a check,
That didn’t cover my medical expenses,
And was sent on my way,
Without the lady I loved to convey me back and forth,
To wherever I may need to go.
Since then I’ve healed up,
Have a few new scars,
And a hole in my heart,
Where the road used to live.
Where Thea used to live.
Now I won’t say I’m empty,
But sometimes I feel like my tank is.
I flipped the switch to reserve,
But if I don’t stop and fuel up soon,
I might just putter out.

What do I want out of life?
What am I willing to give?
Who do I want to become?
What do I have to give up?
I knew myself,
Very well,
When I was very young.
As I got older,
That became less true,
And I've challenged,
Every part of me.
I've given up,
I've started fresh,
I focused almost exclusively,
On "I."
Self centered,
Ego centric,
Arrogant,
Selfish,
Prideful,
Cocky,
Narcissistic,
"I."
I experience love as best I can,
I save the response just for myself.
I cling on to feelings,
Emotions,
Memories,
All of which appeal to me.
When I share it is for you,
And the way you feel,
That is for me.
I absorb it,
I relish in it,
I feed off of it.
Your anger,
Frustration,
Pleasure,
Pain,
Each feeling you have,
That I have crafted,
Is the food on my plate,
The wine in my glass,
The goal I seek.
How I make other people feel,
Is what sustains me.
The power I get from affecting others,
Is the one thing,
Intentional or not,
That I want,
That I need.
It is a knife in the back,
Of all my good intentions,
"Et Tu Brute, Et Tu?"
I don't want to live this way.
I don't.
I want a simpler life,
Where my kindness is truer,
My generosity is more giving,
My love, my words, my heart,
Is shared for you,
Not for me.
I want to be less selfish,
But,
I can't.
Not that I know of.
It's all still about me,
It always has been,
Always will be.
So what?
What can I do,
To change myself on the surface,
Or in my veins,
That will allow the best of me,
To bleed into my every day life?
What can I do,
To be truer to myself,
While giving up on my baser instincts?
How can I become someone,
Who I can let other people love,
When I can't even love myself?
What?
What?
What?

There once was a time,
When I was desired despite myself.
I was flawed, ugly, weak,
But wanted, sought after, loved.
I was loose with my libido,
Free with my words,
Flippant with my attitude.
I gave little and took a lot,
It was callous and cold,
Calculated and specific.
I was a romeo without the romance,
A jigalo without the salary,
A Don Juan named Shaun.
I justified my wrong doings with reason after flawed reason,
Banking on my honesty as a cash out of valuable intentions.

I put my stock in the wrong company,
My debts have come to collection,
I'm emotionally bankrupt and no one wants to lend me a dime.
My salary is low,
My history bad,
I've got a credit score of 50,
Give or take 50.

I can't say I'm working on it,
Or working hard at all,
I've been dodging my creditors calls,
Cause I have no story to tell them,
That might deal me down to only half of what I owe.
My friends and family have seen my track record,
And could guarantee themselves better payoffs at the track,
Investing in me is investing in the long term payoff of last years crops;
Fruitless.

Maybe the problem is my portfolio,
And how I never look at it.
I haven't seen an advisor in years,
Not that I'd have listened,
Even if I had.
My CPA fired me,
My attorney needs a retainer the size of the world bank,
And the bank calls me,
Not to make a sale,
But to ask me when I might finally set sail and find a new bank.

Just to be clear,
This is a metaphor,
My finances are totally in order.
I'm just poor in the emotional department.
Not that I wouldn't give if I had some to share.
I've just never been good at saving, investing, or planning for the future.
Its not like I didn't learn the right way growing up,
Or,
At least,
A way while growing up.
My parents are open, empathetic, caring.
They share, communicate, and facilitate a loving home with happy people.
I wanted what they had when I was young,
I just didn't want them to know I wanted it.
Years went by and my eye wandered,
Down the road to different desires,
And an askew way of financing that trip.

Independence for me.
Lone Wolf.
Man of Mystery.
Public Hermit.

Not to suggest I don't have funds available to me.
Specifically I want to say I'm not a sociopath incapable of emotional understanding,
Of emotional growth,
Emotional awareness.
I'm not devoid of emotion,
Not unable to feel, to love, to express,
Those just aren't valuable to me.
The things that bring me emotional pain or pleasure are few and far between.
So few and so far that they are easy to avoid,
Taking different roads to different plans of,
This specific type of emotional financial success.
Its not that I can't let myself be loved,
I just don't value my own stock the way I used to,
And spend my time,
Nowadays,
Advising people to buy elsewhere,
Shares in Shaun are at an all time low.

Misrepresenting myself to the board of me,
And all prospective parties,
To keep things simple and to avoid unwanted scrutiny,
No need for "auditors of love" to check our books,
Our ledger is bad,
We admit it.

I admit it.

Only problem is if I keep down-selling my value to me,
I'll stop investing in myself.
No worse way to make a downward spiral spin,
Then to give oneself a golden parachute,
Only to find its an I.O.U. from a me who thought,
"Things will change next year,"
"Promise"