Campfire

So here we are
just you and I;
And of course the endless blanket of stars we find ourselves under
A reflecting moon bouncing off the surface of a nearby lake
and a campfire.

A strong fire once existed.
it was unpredictable in force, and bold in its nature
but as the sun faded behind a nearby mountain range
the flames receded.
and all of the many embers that popped in every direction from atop the fire
grew fewer in number.
until so few were left that you could not help but trace their route
watching them say their final good-bye

and it made me think that we are all embers;
doing our own unique dance
acquainting ourselves with one another
before finally fading out of the picture
and finally,
I was not scared by this.

.,,.

so what did you come here and expect to find
some sort of answer?
Well, I can promise you that I don't have it
and if I did
I wouldn't know what to do with it

about forgiveness

So the general discussion was "that keeping the anger inside after someone kills a family member or someone close" will ultimately cripple you. This was one man's response. Absolutely incredible.

"I know exactly what you mean.

My father was killed on his motorcycle by a reckless, speeding redneck asshole who was also half-stoned on vicoden. I bumped into him walking into the courthouse during some civil testimony lawyer circle jerk crap. He just looked at me and said, "You probably want to kill me, huh? Wish I was dead?"

Now, this is the first time I ever saw his face in real life. On the news, I'd only ever seen this picture of him from a few years before the accident. Young hillbilly in military fatigues standing in front of some barracks in Iraq or whatever.

But at that moment... Jesus. He was only in his early 30's, but the guy looked like a cracked out 65. His eyes were so swollen and so bloodshot... They looked beyond exhausted. This guy I had felt nothing but contempt for, who had caused so much sadness and pain in my life. I had imagined a thousand different scenarios involving my hands and this worthless fucking mongrel's insides. This fucking guy took my father from me. I was only 6 months from being able to sit in a bar with the guy. We were just about to hit that point where I was ready to learn from him, where he could teach me how to be a proper man. Months of this grief and hate and inconsolable rage.

But fuck me. In that moment, seeing him so fucking broken, after all the shit my brother and I talked about doing to this guy, after all the hate and fury we conjured in our deepest moments of suffering and grief... And I looked at this man who was barely hanging onto life, and I knew. I could see it so clearly. The mental anguish from PTSD. The physical pain from the shrapnel or bullets or whatever buried in his shoulder. The soul crushing loneliness of having no one left willing to love him...

I said the only thing I could think to say, "Looks like you're wishing it hard enough for both of us." He grunt-laughed and smirked. And then, noticing that the rest of my family was watching our interaction, immediately ashamed and aware of himself, he stammered to try and apologize. I could hear my aunt, sister, and brother start to rise up in fury. I could see him start to pull in, to let the hate and anger just tear him open. And I started to cry. And I hugged him. And I pulled him so close to me. He smelled so awful. I pulled him in and I said some things I don't remember and he cried and I pushed brother away and we just held each other and wept.

He wrote to me every so often from the hospital he spent the following few years in. He told me about everything he lost. About how he wasted his entire life and never did anything worth a damn. About how he wanted to kill himself the day he hit my father. About how the only thing keeping him from eating a bullet now was his obligation to my dad and me to live as long as he could. No matter what. To either make himself better or suffer until the universe decided to take him.

He drowned in 2010 while ice fishing. A stranger's dog fell through the ice, and he jumped in to save it. Neither of them made it out. There were 6 people at his funeral including the pastor, myself, and my GF at the time. My family and I aren't as close as we once were. I am kind of estranged and ostracized, not for staying in contact with the man who killed my father, but for seeing him and thinking of him as more than just that. I tried to get them to see through that hate, to see what really matters. But they can't let it go. And so I'm stuck missing my father, my family, and the man who took all of it away from me. But it isn't all bad. Not once I realized that missing them is just another way of loving them - And it's the only way I have left"

I often feel as if I'm living in a world with no compassion. But things like this, well that just make me stop and question wether or not my beliefs hold water.

oriGinal song

I don't really know what were fighting about
but I am broken by emotions that have hollowed me out
and it hurts and it burns
when I think of the words I told her

tired and weaker, I'm broken and bruised
you know I'm totally hopeless
completely confused
and it seems you and me won't ever be happy will we?

what we had is over
our run with love is through
so why am I still stuck here missing you?

and don't say you love me when you don't
cause if you look back
I think you'd say that we couldn't last

and don't say you're sorry when your not
cause all the phone calls
the love songs
are in the past

oh it went to fast
but it always does
and what I miss most
is the man I was
back when I had, you

I don't know what happened
I wound up alone
would've lessoned the heartache
if I'd only known
that my time was blown on a girl that was nowhere near me

theres no happy ending, thats just how it goes
you know that life's a roller coaster, it ebs and it flows
and it throws me around
I know I have found my closure

the things you said still haunt me
the things you did do to
so why am I still stuck here missing you you?

and don't say you love me when you don't
cause if you looked back
I'd think you see that we couldn't last

and don't say your sorry not
cause all the phone calls
the love songs are in the past

oh it went to fast
but it always does
and what I miss most
is the man I was
back when I had you

the harmony, we used to make
is trailing out in volumes
now I waste away the time
I used to call you to say I was sorry
cause baby I'm sorry

91.

surface
barely scratched
the demons
clawing away
whispering their false truths into a believing soul
outward appearances
perception might as well be reality
but this is a betrayal
to the actual truth
self-loathing
each moment becoming increasingly heavy
like the words from your parents about an impending divorce
there are two types of hatred
the type that erupts when confronted
and the type that is slow moving
quietly in the background of every happy memory you can conjure
mounting further and further
so when the waters turn red,
don't be surprised if my final gesture is a smile

now

life is good.
take time to smell the roses.
live in the now.

home

home is the trace of her perfume on a silk-sheet bed
a lingering aroma that pails in comparison
but still carries the subtle nuance of her return
It's where cords of long dark hair are found clinging tightly
on clothing several days after the last rendezvous
Home is the laughter and smile
from a pretty girl
whose tempestuous glare beckons
for her back to be fully arched
as sweat covered bodies let out moans in exasperation
The sea of blankets we sail within
remind that the journey we share
is home
for as long as either side chooses it to be

up

the nightmare.
tossing and turning on a bed to soft.
why can't these springs provide a firmer setting?
get out of my fucking head.
makes me wonder what the hell I'm doing.
what am I doing?
a moment of pure clarity finally came.
the sweat that had formed across my brow faded.
I could finally sleep once more.
..
thank god (Dog).

























(and I still hate the thought that she might be sharing her smile with someone else)

09

Warm water
that's how it all will fade
...
and the tornados that she has inside scare me
but don't let her know I told you that

this is

absolutely beautiful.

‘Why do you write?’ This is a question that I often ask myself. And typically when I’m in the shower and pretending that I’m famous and being interviewed by NPR or the New York Times or something like that — c’mon, you know you do it, too.

But it’s a good question. And the answer I give is usually the same: ’I started writing because I felt alone and sad one day. And it’s one thing to tell people you feel alone and sad. And it’s another to tell them a story about loneliness and sadness.’

Because I like to think of writing as well, one, catharsis. As a way of purging out all those nasty feelings you get from the daily pangs of life. But I also like to think of it as a means of finding out that you’re not alone in this world.

Because there’s something about a story that people connect with – be it a book or a piece of journalism or even a blog post. And whether we (as writers) like to believe it or not, every one of us embeds a little bit of ourselves into our work to make that connection.

And so when people write back to me like they did with my post on depression, and tell me about their own experiences, I feel just a little bit better. Because at least I know that that greatest fear of mine — that I’m all alone in this — isn’t true. That everywhere people are going through the exact same thing.

And there’s an incredible amount of relief in that.

But it’s also just not all about the authors. I think readers are searching for something similar when they read. I know when I first met Charlie in The Perks of Being A Wallflower or Holden in The Catcher in the Rye, I felt connected to them. And the fact that so many other people felt the exact same way gave me comfort.

So I guess the important thing to remember is that you’re never alone when you write (or read, for that matter). As long as you have books and can put a pen to paper, you will always have company.

And that. That is all the reason in the world to keep on doing it.

found on http://dashboardcitizen.com/2013/11/26/why-do-i-write/

so this is how it ends

it's an unfortunate ending to such a beautiful story

but somewhere along the lines it always goes astray

I'll miss the laughter we shared

and how you made me felt

sometimes though it's time to move on

and it looks like I was the one who was left behind

self-pity has never been an outlook I express

so I quickly filled the void

with any vacuous sex

and hollow-conversations that remind me often times

of you.

the way this drew to a close could've been very different

if simply you had cared

or shown any sort of concerned effort

but if you have to ask for someone to care

then is their effort truly genuine?

I'm not some ring 

that you can choose to wear

when I look back on it I still think of

the hood of the red car your shoes scratched up

or when we to Raven's Run and held hands atop a mountain-ledge

our lips touching for the first time

and I felt something very different

you warned me early that this wasn't your strong suit

but I pursued anyways

and there is so much more that you remind me of

but it hurts to remember

because of how emotionally invested I was

which was the downfall, more for you

than for I

this writing has fucking sucked, and I realize it is no longer a skill I possess. but sometimes articulating the thoughts that plague me late at night helps me rationalize a situation.

I miss you. I miss the living fuck out of you. I fucking hate myself for missing you. Fuck. You came around only to knock me down. And I'm not alright with this.

Soundcloud.com

Search: nicsutterj

song: Stuck

pain

and she clutched the thorns along the stem of a red rose

S.

the bare bones

they're exposed when you come around

you conduct melodies against them

only to leave 

how do you supposed we would fair

if it was only you and I?

not much of a difference

the scent of your perfume

on an egyptian threaded pillow case

it leaves your flesh to be desired

but why bother

when it all seems to meaningless

...

at least to one of us

this is not a sonnet

or beautifully written poetry

more of an empty-minded thought process

echoing in the halls

of a man seeking to understand

why she doesn't seem to come around

today I'll cover up

be strong like how my father was

and it will be the last time
I pretend to know you.

...

asderf

Awake the man laid on a cold bed. She had long since left his side, but he still clung to the idea that he could still feel her warmth. It’s always the last day of summer and he felt as if he had been left out in the cold with no key to get back inside. But so it went. The rumblings of a nearby train track reminded him of the emptiness in his stomach. How long had it been since his last meal? The pain would ultimately subside, only to be replaced by another type.

The feeling of longing. Of yearning to be with someone who moved four hundred miles away to chase butterflies down a winding trail. The butterflies aren’t really butterflies though.

dog

George,

do you remember before you lost your eye-sight when we would play the "Hiding Game." Well I'll tell you in case you forgot (But I doubt that, because it was one of your favorites). Everyday after school I would walk the half mile back from where the bus would drop me off. And everyday you would wait at the top of a concrete drive way in eager anticipation. Walking up the drive-way I would yell out "George, I can't say you! Where'd you go""George I can't see you, you're not even a dog"
And you would wag your tail joyously and crouch low to the concrete to try to conceal yourself.

I'm sorry for never being able to give you a true good-bye George. It was hard to leave for the summer, and part of me wished to believe that you would still be waiting when I got back. But more so, I think part of me hoped you would have taken your journey to another dog realm during my absence. Goodbye's have never been my thing, I'm much better off at running from my problems.

.

You buy her lilies because roses are too cliche. She hates lilies because they remind her of funerals. So you buy her gardenias at your mother's suggestion. For years, your house smells of gardenias. Then, one year, it smells of lilies.

it's been a while

So why do I often leave myself open for others;

They enter through a sturdy front door and always leave the house worse off than when they came. It seems that they collect bits and pieces of my soul on their journey, and then discard them in a forgotten corner on the way out. And I guess it is my true achilles heel - wanting to give more than I take. Maybe that's why I hardly ever feel like a person these days

I wish that I could drive from here to the moon just so I could look down and watch the world pass.

the old man and little boy

 Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

shel silverstein

cryptic tones

Like no one you've ever met.

and it was the end of summer.

"Just do it for yourself" is what I've been told... but why be so greedy when you have so much to give.