Poetry and Prose

Happy

Science suggests I’ll never feel happy
Because I’m chemically imbalanced irreparably.
In my brain, serotonin doesn’t secrete normally.
When it does, it does so manically.
I have to medicate and tame my thoughts daily.
I take these pills to help me fall asleep,
And another four during the day for anxiety.
But when science says I’ll never really be happy,
I say to science, fuck you, respectully.
Because I’ve felt happiness within me.
I’ve seen, with new perspective, the way sunlight bounces off the trees,
Felt the wind blow across the ocean with a breeze.
I’ve taken pride in my accomplishments and what I’ve worked to achieve.
I’ve seen the raw beauty hiding in something filthy.
I’ve felt love, and I felt it just as deeply,
Felt the jitters of a first date making me queasy.
I’ve felt the warm embrace of a newborn baby,
And I’ve flown across the world to wander in a different city.
In my mind, there’s a kaleidoscope of breathtaking imagery,
Which I utilize and transform into all types of art and poetry.
My mood disorders and fluctuates chaotically,
To the point I question the end of my sanity,
But through it all, I’ll swear to you I’m not crazy,
The undertow I get caught in is only temporary.
As for the science, well, I’m waiting for an alternate theory,
Because nobody should tell me I can’t be happy.

-D.A. Baker

Advertisements
Poetry and Prose

Postmodern Escapism

This isn’t art, it isn’t quite poetry.
This is an idea injected into your bloodstream,
A viral sensation infecting your feed.
Ocular observations espied from your screen,
Wholesomely depicted as acceptably clean.
Nevermind the restless souls on the street,
Look at this puppy, isn’t he sweet?
Society progressing the demise of obscene,
While we rush to share the most poignant memes.
Trending for now, until the next big tweet,
Our next campaign should be #SayWhatYouMean.
This isn’t life, it’s a postmodern dream.
Escape has never been so discreet.

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

Push

I have this friend named Chrissy
Who has a business selling handmade jewelry
It started with inspirational words stamped on skeleton keys
And grew to rings and other accessories
It’s here she’d want me to mention she’s sold pieces to David Duchovny.
Anyways, back to my story
And, fortunately for me,
The end of this rhyme scheme.
One day I asked her for a key of my own
Something to inspire me when I’m down
On my luck or in the dumps, something
Just to remind me life gets better.
But there’s was one problem, I didn’t know what word that would be.
So, Chrissy, in all her graciousness picks a word for me.
She hands me this necklace with a key as a pendant,
The word on it, “Push”
Nothing else on there but this one word.
Now, I’m a pretty smart and educated man, and in all my eternal wisdom I look at her and go, “huh?”
She looks at me with a grin and sighs, “you’ll figure it out.”

So months go by, and I’m trying to decipher this message.
I keep racking my brain trying to figure it out,
What on earth does she mean by this?
Meanwhile, my life is a mess, and I’m the only one to blame,
I’m not working, and I’m going through my usual rollercoaster of depression,
Only this time it’s one of those slow kiddie rides with no drops,
And it lasted for months.
Disneyland could make a fortune.
Anyways, along comes this woman,
And I truly and completely lost my mind.
I’m ashamed to admit just how crazy I went,
But the whole time, my idiotic brain just heard the word, “push,” and went with it.
I pushed, and I pushed, until I pushed so hard she ran out of my life as quickly as she had came,
And I acheived the unwanted, and embarrassedly emblazoned title of, “That Guy.”
Obviously I’m not proud of what I had done,
So I went to Chrissy.
After thoroughly reaming me from back to front, as any good friend should,
I said, “but I pushed.”
She simply replied, “not like that.”
That’s not all she really said, but she was also more profanity laden back then.

More months go by, and I’m still trying to figure out what this cryptic four letter word is supposed to mean.
My life, still a mess, my love Iife, hilarious at this point.
Once again, I’m dragging my feet through the mud,
Stuck in the same position I was when I got this retched necklace,
But I wear it every day, even through the night.
It’s been the charm that I’ve held close when all the lights go out,
Never yielding in it’s comforting, albeit, confusing sentiment.
I continue on this path for a long while,
Breaking from my depression periodically to keep my life moving,
But still ultimately going nowhere.
I’m stretching myself in every which direction,
Trying to find some resistance in the elasticity of my mind,
And everything I enjoy seems to fall to the wayside,
I continued on, regardless.
Finally, I got to the point where I figured all my pushing was futile,
I went to Chrissy.
I said, “I don’t understand, I’m pushing but I’m not going anywhere.
She replied, “not like that.”

After awhile I finally broke from the constant monotony,
The slowly spinning wheel that always landed with me on the bottom,
And I started to know what it was to feel something good again.
My life, still messy, but more clean than it had been for years.
Love life, mostly non-existent but longed for nonetheless.
I got a new job, working in the field I had gone to school for,
It wasn’t what I had dreamed of when I went to law school,
But it was certainly more fulfilling than the nothingness
That consumed my life prior to this joyous event.
I finally became a lawyer after all my years of patience,
Not to mention the questionable mental state it left me in.
Throughout all of this, I still had that necklace,
Slightly dull and worn at this point, but still
The charm I had relied on for over two years.
It was only recently that I figured out just what it was supposed to mean,
And it was one of the greatest epiphanies of my life.
What I had searched for years to find, quietly found me
When I least expected it, but when I also needed it the most.

So now, I share it with you in the only way I know how.
Starting now, at this very moment,
There’s a little voice inside your head.
My voice, or anyone else’s for that matter.
There’s this voice, and all it says is one word,
Over and over, and over again, repeatedly.
Whenever you feel like you can’t make it,
Or you’re too weak to keep digging
Feet into the dirt, holding ground against the rampant chaos around you,
One voice, whispering a calming chant of singular syllable,
Over and over, and over again, repeatedly.
A voice that echoes throughout the auditory assault
That envelops and suppresses any thought of sanity.
One voice, muting the madness,
Over and over, and over again, repeatedly.
When you feel the world is swallowing you up,
Body aching from the constant toll of crushing,
That voice will salve your wounds,
And prepare you for what comes next,
Over and over, and over again, repeatedly.
A voice that rings true and holds steady
When all seems for not and not isn’t much for living.
That voice, commanding an almighty action,
Over and over, and over again, repeatedly,
One word, one motivation.
“Push.”
And darling, you better keep pushing.

-D.A. Baker

 

Poetry and Prose

Blanket

I wish to radically redesign the pestilent patterns of my anxiety to something less laborious to console,
To painstakingly and precariously shred the fabric of this extirpated entity essentially quilted as me.
Over the course of excessively exaggerated glass clinking and a slurring of distorted soporific sighs,
Redefine what it means to feel alleviation from the abrasive, tattered swatches of my flawed but humble human life.
I ask you, please take these residual strings of revolting regret clinging beneath breast like vestigial threatening threads,
Please decorously sew them into a creative coalescent patchwork of iniquitously depressive distinctions,
And benevolently shear away the coarse, callousness so I can invariably distinguish the viability of your impressive intentions.
Blanket me in the resplendence of your assurance, so that I may sleep affably in spite of my awkwardly exposed appearance,
For I no longer laconically long to bear this isolatedly laden soul, but to lay unashamedly bare, naked, as an individual, whole.

-D.A. Baker
Blog

Constraint in Art

24341-004-609f47d4
Seurat, Georges: A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte—1884

Constraints are necessary and unavoidable when producing art. I witnessed this fact firsthand over the weekend, and it unveiled newfound insight into what it means to create art. In this post, I will look at constraints and limitations placed on different types of art, and how, when used proficiently, those constraints can often lead to exceptional works.

Continue reading “Constraint in Art”

Poetry and Prose

Surgically

This dialogue is becoming more like a soliloquy,
Each word forced through anesthetic screaming, obscurely;
Numb to the touch, and verbalized not so eloquently.
If you must slice me open, please do so surgically,
Carefully dissect the heart of this intellect accordingly.
Articulately incise my insides, but only if it’s methodically.

I politely insist you cut to the point of the main artery,
Straight to the uncommunicative cardiac capillary;
Bloodily let this sentiment, but do it ever so mercifully.
As I’m gradually losing sight of my immediate periphery,
Reassuredly inform me I’m collapsing beneficially,
And when you’ve finally finished, please stitch my wound aesthetically.

-D.A. Baker

Poetry and Prose

A Girl

So, it inevitably starts with a girl.
Doesn’t it always?
She illuminates my world.
Color me shocked with dismay.
This is completely different.
That’ll be the day.
I can’t quite place my finger on it.
You’re missing the pulse, by the way.
But it feels so utterly sublime.
How about another cliché?
I mean, I  have to be right sometime?
Tell yourself whatever you may.
You know, I really don’t need this, okay?
Wait, what did you say?
I said, “I’m done being your prey.”
You can’t end this fray.
Watch me as I walk away.

-D.A. Baker