thejournalofbisonjack:

The Two Secrets
We were the secreteveryone knew, except us. That was our secret.

thejournalofbisonjack:

The Two Secrets

We were the secret
everyone knew, except us.
That was our secret.

colourconstellation said: Where is your poem about comparing different girls to cars

 You should find The Used Love Lot here.

http://thejournalofbisonjack.tumblr.com/post/92940963643/the-used-love-lot-she-was-an-aston-martin

The Two Secrets
We were the secreteveryone knew, except us. That was our secret.

The Two Secrets

We were the secret
everyone knew, except us.
That was our secret.

Imperfect Tense
Much of this journalis written upon reflection,as though the eventswhich have shaped mylife have been waitingfor me to join them.

notes
* mostly about people and places and things I have lost and cant find my way back to
* the finite in the infinite
* the infinite in the finite

Imperfect Tense


Much of this journal
is written upon reflection,
as though the events
which have shaped my
life have been waiting
for me to join them.

notes

* mostly about people and
places and things I have
lost and cant find my way back to

* the finite in the infinite

* the infinite in the finite

Sometimes you just have to keep writing something until you get it right/die
All of It
.
for all of it, the slight of hands and sideways glances; the shallow breathing, and the violence; the unsaid and the consequences; the easy lies and the broken promises, the humbling of love and the beauty of kindness; the loneliness of runningand the compassion of silence; the sabotage and medicine, and the mindfulness in the pursuit of last chances,for all of it,I wouldn’t change a thing, except, maybe, the timing.

Sometimes you just have to keep writing something until you get it right/die

All of It

.

for all of it,
the slight of hands
and sideways glances;
the shallow breathing,
and the violence;
the unsaid and the
consequences;
the easy lies and
the broken promises,
the humbling of love
and the beauty of kindness;
the loneliness of running
and the compassion
of silence; the sabotage
and medicine, and the
mindfulness in the
pursuit of last chances,
for all of it,
I wouldn’t change
a thing, except, maybe,
the timing.

thejournalofbisonjack:
    Fracture
    In the fractured    light of tomorrow morning,    when the last drops of wine    have been drunk and everyone    is sleeping, I will drag a bag    of dreams down the stairs    of this apartment building,    and leave them on the    curb for recycling.

thejournalofbisonjack:

    Fracture

    In the fractured
    light of tomorrow morning,
    when the last drops of wine
    have been drunk and everyone
    is sleeping, I will drag a bag
    of dreams down the stairs
    of this apartment building,
    and leave them on the
    curb for recycling.

thejournalofbisonjack:
To BreatheThe air thickens with timebut, still, to breathe is to roll down the window of an open road, and shape holes in the wind with our hands.

thejournalofbisonjack:

To Breathe

The air thickens with time
but, still, to breathe is to roll
down the window of an open
road, and shape holes in the
wind with our hands.

The Deep Down

The Deep Down

thejournalofbisonjack:

thejournalofbisonjack:
The Way I WasI used to want to changethe world, but then I meta girl who liked me justthe way I was, and suddenly I didn’t wantto change a thing.

thejournalofbisonjack:

thejournalofbisonjack:

The Way I Was

I used to
want to change
the world,
but then I met
a girl who
liked me just
the way I was,
and suddenly
I didn’t want
to change a thing.

Powder Burns
.
He walked with a lingering gait, forged by years of being in a hurry to be dead, and the disappointment that comes with failing. She was a collision of panic and grace; pieced together from the twisted remains of her broken down parents, and a marriage she had hoped would help her escape, but left her black and blue with a perforated ear drum, instead.Except for the sound of a dollar bill beingrejected by a vending machine, the waiting room was empty.“Where you headed?” he asked.“Beautiful,” she said.

Powder Burns

.

He walked with a lingering gait, forged by
years of being in a hurry to be dead, and
the disappointment that comes with failing.
She was a collision of panic and grace;
pieced together from the twisted remains
of her broken down parents, and a marriage
she had hoped would help her escape, but
left her black and blue with a perforated
ear drum, instead.
Except for the sound of a dollar bill being
rejected by a vending machine, the waiting
room was empty.
“Where you headed?” he asked.
“Beautiful,” she said.

Inertia
.
If someone says something hurtful to you, try and imagine them callingyou names as they drive by at 100 mph with the window rolled down. You know they shouted something. You are not sure what it was. You know they are going to crash.
for Kerith

Inertia

.

If someone says
something hurtful to you,
try and imagine them calling
you names as they drive by
at 100 mph with the window
rolled down. You know
they shouted something.
You are not sure what it was.
You know they are going
to crash.

for Kerith

Loose Lips



.
In the last few months I have been talking to myself more than usual,and when I mentioned it, in passing, at a recentdoctor’s appointmentshe said it was nothing to worry about—as long as I mostly kept it to small talk. That’s when I knew I was done for.

Loose Lips

.

In the last few months
I have been talking to
myself more than usual,
and when I mentioned
it, in passing, at a recent
doctor’s appointment
she said it was nothing
to worry about—as long
as I mostly kept it
to small talk.

That’s when I knew
I was done for.

thejournalofbisonjack:

What To Say

.

I have spent most of my life searching for

what to say, and I have said and done a

lot of things I didn’t mean, along the way.

Over time, I have grown to believe that the

person I have been for most of my life, is

actually someone I invented when I was a

little boy; for reasons, when you think back,

I know you will understand—for my story is

no different to other stories of children who

are abused. In some ways, this journal is both

a diary of a man trying to find his way back

to the kid he left behind—and a map with

poorly written directions to the person he may

have become. But, today, even though you

are long gone and your heart is no longer

your own to share, I wanted you to know that

the words finally came to me—and I am sorry.

thejournalofbisonjack:

thejournalofbisonjack:
The Dust is Singing
.
One day, in another life perhaps;one in which I don’t feel the need to change the world or spend so much time by myself, I would like to drive along a dirt road to the general store to stock-up on supplies and collect the mail—and in the red dust of a late afternoon sun, stand with one foot on the running board of my truck reading a letter that says you will be arriving soon

thejournalofbisonjack:

thejournalofbisonjack:

The Dust is Singing

.

One day,

in another life perhaps;

one in which I don’t feel

the need to change the world

or spend so much time by myself,

I would like to drive along

a dirt road to the general store

to stock-up on supplies

and collect the mail—

and in the red dust of

a late afternoon sun,

stand with one foot on

the running board of my truck

reading a letter that says

you will be arriving soon

In Memory

In Memory