Not A Drop Less....

Tears drip like rain pours 
Washing away all my hopes and dreams
 Like chalk on a blackboard 
As I find that what I have to do, I hate to do 
And I hate myself for not loving you
 And I await the day I'll be able to.
 Like when I fell for you, I hit hard
 And it shattered my make-believe 
Jolting me back to the reality that 
We connected! Unlike any connection before or since
 And my hesitance to go down this road
 Is actually not that different from yours 
It's like I kno what I'm capable of
 And I hate to think that I've hurt you now 
But I'd hate to be the one to drag you down
 Even though you think you're ready to go
So
 Tears drip down my face too, Like rain
 Pouring down window sills to the ground; 
My chest, to the pot hole my belly button forms 
Like a baby, I pour my soul into my hands,
 Poor baby! It was my choice and I know I punked out,
But sometimes the best thing is the hardest thing
And the hardest thing is the worst thing
'Cause head and heart don't communicate like they used to;
Head remembering heartache and heart turning love into a headache
And I can't bear being the cause of this and
I find myself sitting and wishing
That we could find some common time, Some place
Where we could stand, face to face, and
Wipe each others eyes dry.
And I...
I lay my head down
And rest seems to refuse to come
And then it does, leaving me at the mercy of my dreams
Tossed about by turbulent brain waves
There is no peaceful rest for me tonight
But I find rest nevertheless.
.......And I Find That, On Awaking, I'm Still In Love With You
.....And It Still Hurts, Not A Drop Less!!! 



-HalfCrazy
©Elias O.Dupuis 2010

It Was About Time.....

There are few occasions in life that call for a re-assessing of priorities, a refocusing of ideals or a change in directions. These events, though not everyday occurrences, force us to take stock of our lives so far; whether that means our connection to a higher power, how close we are to the ones we love and those we share DNA with or simply how far we are from having the lives we painted ourselves in as children. And whether we realize that we have fallen short or that we've far exceeded what we set off to accomplish, the fact remains that we are humbled by the experience.

There are a few birthdays that call for such a soul search, like 21, 40 and 50. There are weddings, graduations, promotions, births, deaths and funerals. The effects of these, whether they happen around us and especially if they happen to us, are undoubtedly immense. With each milestone we are constantly bombarded by what a necessity it has always been to truly enjoy the life you have, even if it's not the life you think you want or deserve. From the beaming faces of sheer joy at a wedding, the flash-flushed smiles of relatives and friends alike at a graduation or the pride in a father's eyes as he stares knowingly at his newborn, to the unexplainable grief that fake smiles can't hold back at a funeral as tears flow like rivers; they change us.

It causes us to love harder and deeper and never forget the reasons we have others to love, holding on the why that makes us love them and letting go of the envy and jealousy that sometimes blinds us to the fact that the ones we hurt the most are the ones we ought to cherish dearly. We feel because we are. And we are lucky to 'be'.

-HalfCrazy 
© Elias O. Dupuis 2010

Lost Identity.....

You touched me....so,
How is it that you expect me to be,
Without lips to lay my kisses on,
Without a heart to hide my emotions in,
Without a mind to share my dreams with,
Without ears to whisper my secrets into...?
I am scared,
It hurts and I,
I tear up from inside
All of the profoundness that is me.
Running from the intense emptiness
That lingers still.
My soul like is an abyss for want of another,
With whom to share my pain,
With whom to share my smiles,
With whom to whisper secrets.

Do you expect me to continue?
My desktop is already littered with abandoned notions.
How can I even finish a poem,
When I can barely
Stitch together ideas,
Expressing the agonizing horror that
An existence without you truly feels like;
Cold, lonely, empty, dark.

The mirror mirrors nothing despite my intense gazing;
Pain like darkness absorbing me,
Refusing to relinquish it's grasp,
Despite my best attempts to escape it.
What do you expect of me?
Who am I to be?
Without you.

-HalfCrazy
© Elias O. Dupuis 2010

The Benches......

They destroyed the benches yesterday.
The ones under the big flamboyant tree
Where we etched our names with knives
And pledged eternal, unconditional allegiance.
Seems like a lifetime ago since we liked each other
When, like opposites, we attracted to features
Unlike our respective own. When in the company of you,
Me felt complete and whole, because we filled the holes
In each other, left by previous lovers.

I remember the sunlight kissing your skin so perfectly,
Like the leaves of that tree were arranged so that
One day you could sit in that spot, 
Head tilted to the side; slightly
And it would appear that their sole purpose 
Was to diffuse the light,
So perfect-like and lay it on your cheek, just right. 

The benches where, as you read loudly, I laid my head in your lap
Looking up into the vastness of the wide open blue
As if staring into the infinity our future appeared to be; then,
And if only for a second, the blink of an eye,
I caught a glimpse of us, in some far off time,
Me, still hopelessly orbiting you, and you me, 
For sheer gravity. 

And in those moments, 
With all the sunlight, shade and company
That we could ever need
We let go and fell head-over-heels
Face first, without the slightest care of bruising.
Without the worry of breaking bones or hearts
Not caring how fragile or brittle either were.
Untamed and unbridled, to love and believe.
And the memories will live on,
Even though the benches are gone.

And I hope to God you remember like I do,
Because....

They destroyed OUR benches yesterday
The ones under the big flamboyant tree
Where we etched our names with knives!
......And I wonder, what ever became of US?

-HalfCrazy
© Elias O. Dupuis 2010

Better....

If These Words Reach You,
Know That Broken Hearts Need Be Healed,
That No Bitterness Linger Nor Hatred Be Herein Spread.
For Unbridled Tongues Speak Abundantly More When
Motivated By Folly, And Lead Us Into Paths We'd Rather Not Taken.

While I Hope Happiness Follows You
Know That The Stitches That Remain And These Words Alone
Are But Testament To The Time We Shared.
And That The Fleeting Seconds Spent In Cathectic Lust;
Accreted Daily,
Are Burnt Upon The Mind Of This Broken Man;
Left In My Stead,
And Etched Upon This Stony Heart,
Frigid, For The Ravagings Of Infatuation And Its Counterparts.

This Picture, Once A Mirror,
Is Now, But A Distant Memory,
A Way Point, Showing What Better Is
How Better Looks, How Better Feels
And Where Better, Is!
Even Moments Of Sheer Glee
Appear Dim, When Compared.
I have Been There, It Be What It Be,
I Know What It Feels Like, What It Tastes Like;
And Less Than Better Simply Cannot Suffice!!!

-HalfCrazy
© Elias O. Dupuis 2010

Let's start with James Patterson.....

When I don't feel like writing, I search for distraction. Whether I find it in a delightful conversation with a beautiful young lady or in the sanctuary of my room watching a Sixers game or an episode of one of the numerous TV series that I follow, I find that it all brings me back to one place. It causes me, in a round-about way to revert to a state in which I can think. The proverbial light bulb in my head can be triggered by that slightest inspiring stimulus. The one thing I wish is that my reluctance to write at any one particular time, may provoke me to read a book.

I used to be an avid reader in my younger days, having learned the skill ahead of most of my fellow schoolmates. My mother was a teacher and maybe that had something to do with it, or maybe I had inherited some of the brilliance that I would later go on to hear her friends and colleagues rave about. I read everything in sight, literature books, science books, even books with words too big for me to fully comprehend at that age.

With prepubescent maturity came the interests in other things. I fell in love with the game of basketball and sacrificed much of my reading time to playing the game and watching NBA games. I did, however, always seem to make time to read right before I fell asleep, maybe half an hour each night. This practice was frowned upon by my parents, although I,then, failed to understand how it affected them. With repeated discouragement of this, I soon gave it up altogether and my reading habits have suffered since then.

To this day, I've struggled to read; extensively. I've written poems that others deem worthy of much praise and have received much adoration for my command of the skill. I have written stories that surprised my teachers at various points throughout my academic career simply because they couldn't believe that I wrote it. But I have struggled to read even books that were necessary to my curricula. I even passed English Lit without actually reading the books.

Recently I tried audio books which work well but seem to be solely for entertainment purposes, since if u get to thinking about a particular word or the use of it for too long you may miss something. They did inspire me to read though, a bit anyway. So I bought a James Patterson novel (I think he's brilliant), the first novel I've ever bought for myself......Let's see how that goes!!!

My Father's Son....

I once said that I didn't know my father. The thought returns every-so often and wrecks me. It wrecks me because I grew up with my dad and the context in which the question was asked related to not having known who your father at all; more like never having seen him than not knowing him as a person.

When I think about it, I was right. Maybe not to have said that I didn't know who he was but the fact is I never understood him, at least not since I was a very young boy. My entire adolescence was spent hating him for being everything I never wanted to be. But life is full of ironies and it afforded me the good fortune to peer into his life for a bit and walk in his shoes.

What I garnered from a couple months of intense work, the kind he used to do, is that I seriously doubt I could have done it nearly as long as he did. I lost about 10 lbs in the sweltering heat, surveying at different elevations, all the while calculating angles, horizontal and slope distances and driving myself and the rest of my crew to and from the locations.

All the while I watched my father, a hollow shell of the man he used to be, seem to slowly continue to lose his place in this world. The place he has occupied for the past twenty-odd years, that he had dedicated his life to securing, is slowly slipping away from him despite his desperate, sometimes angry and insensitive, attempts to hold on to it. As a victim of diabetes-related visual deterioration, his dimming world appears to frighten him more than he'll ever let on.

I found my father there though in all of that and I've learned to love the man, my pubescent dislike for him removed, even for the things that I still hate about him. I have found the "him" in me and in as much as some of my actions and attitudes upset me and I see a need to change them, the reasons for them are obvious.

I am my father's son! I've never been more proud to say that.

In Retrospect....

I came across a letter this morning that was written to me about seven and a half years ago. It was a personal letter, the only letter I have ever received from that particular friend. As I read it again, I was taken back to that time. I had just moved to Jamaica, gas was $24 per litre and much of whom I now am was still yet to be learned and discovered. How fitting that I should find it now, when my stay in this foreign nation is fast at its conclusion.

It was handwritten and beautiful and I couldn't stop reading it. I remembered the apartment I used to live in and the grumpy, "flatulent" landlord. I remembered the cute Indian girl next door and how the only time since then I'd seen her was at a play featuring Med Students (she should be a doctor by now!). I remembered that Micheal Jackson's "You Are My Life" was my theme song for months and how every time I hear that song I remember Trudi Wynter(ah she buss mi pon it).

I remembered how much I didn't want to be in Jamaica despite how eager I had been at the prospect of leaving home. I remembered my reason for always wanting to go home and considered how time has changed those motivations. I remembered taking the bus at 6:30 in the morning to avoid the rush hour packed buses that were all too reminiscent of slave ships and the middle passage.

I remembered how we never really went anywhere for sheer crippling fear. I remembered how afraid I was to join the choir at church and how excited I was when I did.

And the memories continued to come, all the way up to and through University. Every other time I've had to, it's been an absolute joy to abandon Jamaica for the familiar sounds, sight and feelings of home. This time, although this is not the last time I will leave Jamaica, there's a certain finality that I cannot help but feel.

I think I've finally reckoned, and rightly so, that Jamaica has made me. It's been a huge influence and will continue to be in the future. As reluctant as I am to admit it, I'm happy I was here. This place is like a fungus, it grows on you!!!

Difficult To Complain......

I have found it incredibly difficult to complain this week; about anything. Even in my silent, solitude, while I was not quite able to grasp the true epically graphic nature of the catastrophe that Haitians have had to deal with, I imagined what I reckon was close. So I could no longer mutter to myself and the heavens how disgusted I am to still be in my current state, and geographical location for that matter.

I developed a sense of guilty empathy for some generic little boy whose mother could scarcely afford to feed them both, now sitting unharmed beside her rapidly cooling corpse. I felt his first scream resound in my ear after having recovered from the initial shock of having fallen two whole stories down, only to land unscathed amidst all the devastation around him. I saw his face that had gone from giggling to furrowed and sad in just a few brief seconds. An innocent child, unhurt but helpless, still clinging to his mother's dress and crying, unable to understand why her once bright eyes now seemed so cold and why she lay lifeless though they remained open.

I don't have much of a personal attachment to Haiti. Before Thursday I knew little about the history of the nation, apart from occasionally having heard references to L'Overture, Papa and Baby Doc and Aristide! So I decided to take a look back at the history of a people brave enough to challenge slavery and have it abolished 40 years before the rest of the Americas and to gain nationhood, long before most of our nations had even dreamed up the notion. Nothing is more evident in the account of Haitian history, masked sometimes by the ever-present corrupt government, than the pride that Haitians take in, not only, their nationhood but also the privilege it is to be Haitian

Maybe it was the stories I have read this week, maybe it's the constant news updates or the calls for donations by our telephone networks, favorite basketball players, NFL, NBA, NCAA and numerous other media affiliated entities that we are favored to enjoy. Maybe it was the insight into the resolve and pride of the Haitian people. But for some reason I found it really hard to complain that my single bed, which has become very uncomfortable, has caused me pre-mature adult back pain. In the scheme of things it seemed minute and strangely bearable; this week!!!

T.O.T.D: Always Remember That It Does Get Worse Than This.....And It Can Get Better!!!----Elias Orville Dupuis