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We looked inside some of the posts by badforyourheartgoodforyourart and here's what we found interesting.
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Enlightenment
Power and strength don’t do much for my enlightened soul. I much prefer to flail — pathetically and exuberantly. Like a helpless animal that’s found itself in a situation of most-certain death, eyes locked wide open, violently battling with naive might while passers-by cringe in discomfort.
We fight so desperately to bury that we fight so desperately. That we worry; that we’re scared; that we’re heartbroken. That we’ve failed. And that when we’re alone we cry ugly, selfish tears. We bury our shame under thick facades of ambivalence, that’s somehow perceived as strength and power.
As if to make your God proud. As if He wanted you to take your delicate, warm body and turn its flesh to stone, trapping You inside.
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Recognizable
Is it you?
Is that you?
How long has it been?
Since I’ve seen you?
Since I’ve loved you?
Since I drank you like gin?
You rocked me
You wrecked me
You stole me away
I despised you
I surprised you
When I stopped letting you in
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Scar
Have you forgotten me?
Think of me rottenly?
You wouldn’t have
You couldn’t have
You hate me
So blatantly
But I’m not letting you go
I’m faded
You’re jaded
Still you’re mine
Intertwined
We share something
Bear something
No one else will ever know
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An exchange, in poetry.
A message to me:
Jumbled mess, non contest
Disrespect a family crest
Introspect your fucking test
Goddamn loss at its very best
Shape shift, movement
Lack of improvement
What the hell am I really doing?
Who are you, thinking you feel it?
I’ll shed you like a snakeskin
Molt and rot and be done with it
Oh God get me out of the garden
Don’t want your grace; I’m over it
I didn’t lose the one
Never materialize, never become
Never knew you, where you from?
Oh that’s nice, now get gone
Half-fed, half-hearted
Lacking will to be complete in either
Falling apart like my mother
Wasted and withered, willow without her
I’ll shed you like the leaves
Like I was fortunate enough as a tree
Maybe I’ll be buried with that fantasy
Change a season and lose all feeling
Oh God, get me out of the garden
The apple fell far and our souls now harden
Corruption, reduction, what war is this?
Hands outstretched as they’re lost in violence
I reached for your hand one too many times
Lost the grip, let it slip, can’t call you mine
I won’t say that I’m feeling fine
But also won’t say I want to rewind
Because now I’m out of the garden
Escaped the delusion, parted with it
My half heart as it went it’s farthest
Lost control and it was beautiful, cathartic
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
A visceral response, from me:
It was beautiful, cathartic
Like a punch to the gut in the darkness
Like what might’ve been art, before we were artless
Shut up. And get the fuck out of my garden.
Do you peel your skin off just for a retake?
Does cold in your veins truly numb bloody heartache?
Why slither away from the life you keep trying to make?
If it was your garden, would you allow such a snake?
Well, my garden’s infested
The apple fell far, hard; still I chose to ingest it
Snakes, sin, and shame came in and nested
It’s grace survived, but had been molested
It’s rampant with weeds; wild; overgrown
A garden sanctuary, a garden war zone
Growing then dying, like my mother, before she left me alone
I thought I could share with you this beautiful mess I call home
You say I half did, with my half heart; guess I have half a soul
We have history, we have chemistry, we have no self control
Half wonderful, half terrible, have hearts that we stole
Hate to admit you’re right; I don’t know the last time I felt whole
I said out, fool, past the garden’s fence
Then we stood statues, in loud silence
Flooded, drowning in raw absence
Offering God: take my half-soul as penance
Life was a blessing, welded shut with a curse
No soul to guide me, my North Star was my hearse
Don’t know where I was going, but I died on my search
I beg to differ — This is goddamn loss at its worst.
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The words I need to hear
It’s okay
You’re okay
Whatever your heart tells
Whatever your head sells
Quit trying to figure it out
Get rid of doubt
You won’t.
Waves will smash into you
No regard for you
Tired of treading, try to drown you.
Trust it will pass through you
Let it live now
Let it die somehow
It’s okay
It’s okay
It’s okay
You’re okay
We know it’s a hell wreck
We know it’s a shitty mess
It must be impossible
You’re capable
You can.
There isn’t a right way
Only your way
No one knows what’s yours to weigh.
Somehow find the way
Just take a step
Just take a deep breath
It’s okay
It’s okay
It’s okay
You’re okay
I repeat in my head
I repeat aloud in bed
Try to believe the words
Dream of bluebirds
I am tired.
It’s okay.
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a description (v.II)
White hot skin: easily setting ablaze the darkest hearts, an extension of her legend, that she radiated with the highest godly power: allowing life; Mother of All. She did not fear. She was Fear. and us, her fearing chillen. With such authority, she had every right to chuckle at the attempts to caution her. She danced on, never admitting fault, never admitting weakness. She even danced with destruction, for the brief moment before she and the flammable atmosphere were incinerated.
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Let’s say for the sake of things
Let's say for the sake of things, I loved him.
In a way I think I did. The intrigue in his emerald eyes, that boyish smile, his rugged, raspy voice, and the way he captured the room without intention. I was awed by his essence.
Sure, I loved him. Maybe he loved me back. It doesn't matter; either way his love was not mine to capture, nor hers. It was ever elusive. And those devoted to its hunt were brave and powerful. Brave and powerful until exhaustion stole the last ounce of effort from their legs, and the last reserves of adrenaline dried up.
Hunters turn hunted, and it was always a kill; they lay there paralyzed, their hearts suffocating slowly.
I was not brave and powerful. I was not a stubborn fool.
So I loved him from a distance.
Or perhaps I didn’t love him at all.
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a description
A dirty and desperate soul obeying harder and faster till fucking in overdrive, unable to hold back any longer, and finally, finally allowing it, paralyzed with overstimulation -- but there's no release, no catching of breath, no collapsing on the bed victorious and satisfied. climax was a plateau. No descent in sight. You consented to a moment of hard-earned orgasmic bliss, but time managed its sadistic hands around your neck and raped you.
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2015
For me, 2015 was about... food. So much of my time was spent prepping, plating, serving, learning, buying, trying, talking about, and of course, eating, food. My time was spent studying ingredients and flavor profiles. Is there dairy in the veggie burger? How is the au jus? Too much acidity? Taste. Texture. Temperature. Not to be ruined simply by poor presentation. Fried yucca fanned between 10 and 1 o'clock. Memorizing every detail of every item and needing to recall it at the drop of a hat. I thought I couldn't possibly conquer the menu. But I did. (Barely.) . And with all that knowledge banked... My time was spent pacing the aisles all day long, answering questions, giving recommendations, and hearing feedback about the food from all sorts of people. Blessed with the opportunity to play a small role in these otherwise-strangers' lives. Their celebrations, of love and life. Their refuge, after depletion or defeat. And absolutely ordinary moments, too. The food has a part, of course. But the restaurant is merely a playing field. The magic is what takes place there: time with family, a friend, a lover. And with this on my mind... My time was spent with those people in my own life. Laughing and recalling memories with family over homemade waffles and mimosas. Ordering Mexican takeout and binge-watching tv shows with my friends. And dancing around in the kitchen as the steaks cooked, wrapped in the arms of the man who knew how it would make me smile. For me, 2015 was about food. If these are indulgences in life, then I've been gluttonous; my heart fat with triumph, joy, and love.
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Naked and cackling
I come home and barrel into my room. Tear off my shoes. Tear off my earrings. I start to cry. Utterly overwhelmed with the fact that life is so fucking sad and terrible. My fucking bracelets won’t come off and tears stream from my eyes, dragging black make up down my cheeks. My face wrinkles and distorts and turns red and blotchy. I immediately — instinctively — find the mirror. I meet my own eyes and stare at myself crying. So ugly. I force myself to look at how ugly it is. How ugly I am. I can’t look away. I don’t want to look away.
Welcome back, you little devil. It's been awhile since you've looked back at me in the mirror. I still hate you just the same. Belligerent. Destructive. Pathetic. I shake and scream and collapse to the floor.
And it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels like coming home.
Exhausted, I began to slow. And a terrifying thought enveloped: Do I like being depressed?
The question consumed me. And I slipped lower and lower as days passed to explore it. And the lower I sank, the clearer the answer appeared: Yes. But... How... No... I grasped desolately at words that might let me fathom...
I felt the sadness in every thing, every day. And I didn’t want the pain to end. I wanted to immerse myself in it; submit to weakness; bask in guilt.
Fucking freedom. That's what it was.
Freedom. Momentary escape from imprisonment. From the barren cell of what life should be. Should want these things. Should do those. Should feel... Should act... Should say... Should be...
We accept this prison. Build our own bars, lock ourselves in, hide the key in the darkest depths of our soul. And if we dare -- only sometimes -- in the dead of the night, we escape.
A jailbreak.
I don't have to be happy. Or successful. Or fulfilled or kind or hardworking or ANYTHING. I don't have to set goals or chase dreams. I don't have to love myself. I don't even have to live.
I run from my cage, naked and cackling.
I am autonomous. I am human. I came to build and crash and laugh and cry and stick my fleshy fingers directly into the paint and create life.
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I wonder
I wonder if I'll ever stop crying on my way to work.
I don't have to think at all about the route. The lanes, exits, speed limits, all automatic by now. I've put concealer under my eyes, a little color on my cheeks, and a soft pink on my lips. No eye make-up yet, though. Its easier just to do it when I get there than have it run and make a mess and try to fix it.
Somewhere along the drive, the tears fill up in my eyes. Sometimes I let them streak all the way down my face and drip off my chin. Sometimes I turn the music so loud that I can wail and it disappears into the noise. It is a totally normal commute for me.
Of course, I ask myself why I'm crying. Maybe I hate my job. Maybe I need to exercise more or get better sleep or eat healthier. Maybe my parents were too loving. Maybe its because of the birth control. Maybe I'm another spoiled, soft member of the millennial generation. Or the big one: maybe its how I'm wired.
Regardless, the tears come. I feel it building. A heavy pressure in my chest, slow breathing that doesn't sync with the thudding of my heart. It wells up inside me until the first seam busts loose in the form of a tiny droplet.
There's really not any specific thought or thought process associated with its onset. However, there's a overbearing feeling. It probably falls somewhere under the umbrella of hopelessness, but to better distinguish it, I'd call it impossible inadequacy. Equal parts overwhelmed and disappointed. If I delve deeper into this awful feeling, I wonder if I think I am enough. Maybe that I don't accomplish enough, or try hard enough. That I'm not compassionate enough, or stern enough. That I don't leave enough time to relax. That I'm not a good enough friend, or girlfriend, or daughter, or employee. Enough.
And of course I've deliberated on how I can fix it. I've researched other career paths, listing the pros and cons of my job. Tried sleeping more, sleeping less, different workouts, different diets. Analyzed my personality and my upbringing. Tried countering these weaknesses and shortcomings. Tried plainly accepting them. Meditated. Medicated. Contemplated how I could define what I was feeling. What is "enough"? How is it measured? If I made a list of qualities of a good daughter or of things a good girlfriend would do. If I collected feedback from my friends about our relationships. If I figured the ideal amount of time to spend relaxing per week, or number of things to cross of my to-do list a day. Would that validate that I was enough? No. It wouldn't be enough; there will always be more to do. It will never be enough. "Enough" is a moving target, that stays just barely out of reach.
It is exhausting. It is exhausting even to begin a race that you know has no finish line, not to mention one that endlessly wears you down along the way. There are days that I wonder a lot about crying in the car and everything that goes with it. There are days that I work feverishly to make sense of it, until I'm dizzy with my own thoughts. Then there are days that I am tired of reflecting, and analyzing, and action-planning. There are days that I am just crying in the car, who cares the reason.
It is tempting, especially on days like the latter, to step off the hellish hamster wheel, find solid ground, and fill my lungs with a deep breath of sweet contentment. Stationary, I am enough. I don't cry on my way to work. But I don't recognize the girl looking in the visor mirror. Her mascara doesn't run, but her stare isn't piercing without that run-me-ragged drive, and you can't look into her eyes and see straight into her stubborn heart, still innocent and full.
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Hello world, it's me I think I'm lost, possibly I'm looking for peace But I'm tired and weak Can you quiet my thoughts? Lull them to sleep With the sound of the trees Or the crunch of fall leaves Can you ask the breeze To whisk them away Wherever you please Just out of my head Just let me be Let me be
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Work
I never thought I'd be a restaurant manager. I wanted to work in sports. I loved the underdog victories, the stories of selfless teamwork, and even the ones of devastating heartbreak.
What I loved about sports was what took place there. Life. Raw and humbling life. To me, its magic. I never thought I'd be a restaurant manager. But this playing field has more magic than I ever could have imagined.
We prepare and cook classic american and seafood dishes in a from-scratch kitchen. We do x $ of sales, and serve x # of guests. But so much more than that takes place here. This is a new mom and dad's first night out since having a baby. This is the one time all the old friends could get together again. This is the one shot to impress a client. This is the only thing he wanted when he got out of the hospital. This is a toast: to family, friendship, hardwork.
This is someone's first job, or fresh start; how they pay for college, where they met their wife. Where they learned how much a pressed shirt makes a difference. Where they made mistakes, and grew from them. And where they learned that in this crazy, beautiful world, it truly does take all kinds of people.
These are people's moments. These are people's lives. I'm in it up to my ears everyday. Unrelenting, unapologetic life. Sometimes I'm only a blink in someone's story, sometimes more. Sometimes I go home thinking of all the good in the world, and sometimes about life's challenges. But no matter what, at the end of the day my heart is full. Because my career...is where the magic happens.
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Rhyming
But who deserves my love? And who am I deserving of? And who am I capable of loving? And who is capable of loving? me?
Because, everyone, is my answer.
And that is my answer.
And that is not the answer.
What is the answer?
Is it someone who agrees? Someone who believes? What I do? That’s the answer – It seems.
But I want someone who is wrong. Who fights Who terrorizes my nights Who thinks, It should stop rhyming.
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