People write to me,
to tell me they care,
then, having written,
feel better.
For that is the amount,
of effort,
I'm worth,
a letter,
to tell me they care.
These letters,
they seem,
to help,
for a moment.
Then later,
they leave me,
for worse.
For all of the people,
who tell me,
they care,
not one,
will move off,
of their butt.
I am alone,
amidst all these fakers,
though surely,
they believe,
their own lies.
Though I'd like,
to scream,
at their faces,
"More actions, less words!"
I will not.
Their attempts,
though so feeble,
are all,
that I have,
and to lose them,
would leave me,
with naught.
So the next time I get,
a letter from one,
whose pretending,
their best,
to care.
I pray,
to my maker,
I find then the strength,
to leave it,
unanswered,
that's fair.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Thoughts: Talk about Suicide
Tell people you wish that you were dead and watch their reactions.
Some people get very angry, like it's a personnal insult to them, that you don't see the goodness in life. As if they baked you your life from scratch since dawn and they're angry that you do not care for it. These are people who also with they were dead, but spend their lives denying it to themselves, repeating like a mantra "Life is good, life is good" because if they for one moment truly realized how they felt they'd crumble at the meaninglessness of their existance.
Some people say, "Then kill yourself," with anger, but not quite as angry as the first sort. They're mad that they're working so hard to surivive and they thin you should work hard too.
Some people go "Aww, I'm sorry to hear that," and try in their way to comfort.
But my favorite, by far, are those who nod slowley and say, "yes, I know what you mean."
Some people get very angry, like it's a personnal insult to them, that you don't see the goodness in life. As if they baked you your life from scratch since dawn and they're angry that you do not care for it. These are people who also with they were dead, but spend their lives denying it to themselves, repeating like a mantra "Life is good, life is good" because if they for one moment truly realized how they felt they'd crumble at the meaninglessness of their existance.
Some people say, "Then kill yourself," with anger, but not quite as angry as the first sort. They're mad that they're working so hard to surivive and they thin you should work hard too.
Some people go "Aww, I'm sorry to hear that," and try in their way to comfort.
But my favorite, by far, are those who nod slowley and say, "yes, I know what you mean."
Poem: Feelings
I woke up and I was Scared.
I wanted someone to be there for me,
but there was no one.
Then I was Lonely.
I began to remember people
who used to love me
and I became Sad.
I did not want to be sad again,
so I became Angry.
I had nowhere to direct my anger
except at myself
and I was Hurt.
Now I am
Scared
Lonely
Sad
Angry
and Hurt.
Near tears,
I have nothing.
Oh Gods,
why is this
my life?
I wanted someone to be there for me,
but there was no one.
Then I was Lonely.
I began to remember people
who used to love me
and I became Sad.
I did not want to be sad again,
so I became Angry.
I had nowhere to direct my anger
except at myself
and I was Hurt.
Now I am
Scared
Lonely
Sad
Angry
and Hurt.
Near tears,
I have nothing.
Oh Gods,
why is this
my life?
Poem: Moment of Bull
Money is not important
nor lovers from days far gone
nor lack of success
whatever that means
or people
of you
you're fond.
The days of this life are passing,
so smile before they are gone.
The measure of life
is the warmth of your heart
not your clothing
your car
or your spawn.
nor lovers from days far gone
nor lack of success
whatever that means
or people
of you
you're fond.
The days of this life are passing,
so smile before they are gone.
The measure of life
is the warmth of your heart
not your clothing
your car
or your spawn.
Poem: And on Life Goes
Another month of poverty unfolds before me,
extending it's gut-tightening saddness into the far future.
While relatives and friends live lives of joyful comfort
and even other bums
appear richer than I.
Sucking cock for money has never seemed such a viable option,
the only way to get money
before my looks are gone
and I'm old and ugly,
infirmed, and broke as today.
While people applaud my brilliance and good looks,
telling me "This will pass" and "all will be better soon."
They have no idea.
They say these things to make themselves
and me
feel better.
It does not work.
It has been a year since things began to get worse.
Before that I had two years
of relative peace.
Before that... well... a long time in pain.
Then a year of peace...
then four years of pain...
then a year of peace, then thirteen in pain, then birth.
The Record is not good.
extending it's gut-tightening saddness into the far future.
While relatives and friends live lives of joyful comfort
and even other bums
appear richer than I.
Sucking cock for money has never seemed such a viable option,
the only way to get money
before my looks are gone
and I'm old and ugly,
infirmed, and broke as today.
While people applaud my brilliance and good looks,
telling me "This will pass" and "all will be better soon."
They have no idea.
They say these things to make themselves
and me
feel better.
It does not work.
It has been a year since things began to get worse.
Before that I had two years
of relative peace.
Before that... well... a long time in pain.
Then a year of peace...
then four years of pain...
then a year of peace, then thirteen in pain, then birth.
The Record is not good.
Poem: The Lost Cause
The lost cause who wakes before dawn
ignored by even the fallen.
Haunting late blocks of convinience,
drifting like a wor nand broken robot
from point-a to point-a to point-a.
Remembering with bitter self-loathing
the person he used to be
when he liked himself.
Lovers who used to show him affection, for a moment.
"There's no way out," he thinks,
like the day before
and the day before
and the day before.
Wondering when the Universe stopped loving him
and what he ever did to deserve
to be forgotten.
Nobody knows what's wrong with him,
most importantly himself.
ignored by even the fallen.
Haunting late blocks of convinience,
drifting like a wor nand broken robot
from point-a to point-a to point-a.
Remembering with bitter self-loathing
the person he used to be
when he liked himself.
Lovers who used to show him affection, for a moment.
"There's no way out," he thinks,
like the day before
and the day before
and the day before.
Wondering when the Universe stopped loving him
and what he ever did to deserve
to be forgotten.
Nobody knows what's wrong with him,
most importantly himself.
Poem: Leave Me Alone
Leave me alone, in my life of shame, I don't want to see you again.
You with your life of lightness and joy,
where there is no room for this poor outcaste boy.
Your life that is filled with things that you love,
while mine is impailed with hail from above.
Spending my days doing things which don't matter,
while yours are spent climbing life's sweet golden ladder.
And though I still like you, there's nothing will heal
the pain that consumes each turn of my wheel.
I see not the way my life will get better,
while you plan vacations with grand birthday platters.
Our paths have diverged in a most saddening way,
so "Leave me alone" is all I can say.
You with your life of lightness and joy,
where there is no room for this poor outcaste boy.
Your life that is filled with things that you love,
while mine is impailed with hail from above.
Spending my days doing things which don't matter,
while yours are spent climbing life's sweet golden ladder.
And though I still like you, there's nothing will heal
the pain that consumes each turn of my wheel.
I see not the way my life will get better,
while you plan vacations with grand birthday platters.
Our paths have diverged in a most saddening way,
so "Leave me alone" is all I can say.
Poem: One of the Readers
I'm one of the mindless massess
of quiet sitting readers
all of us on our bunks of metal
passing our time away.
The will to move is lacking
as nothing feels as real
as living in lands of dreaming
and reading not to feel.
The haunting pat floats through me
it works to make me weep
while the present gives no options
of loves that I can keep.
Pretending someone's out there
who loves me all the time
one who'll never leave me
no matter what my crimes.
It's just a game to make me sad
and wish my life to fleeting
it keeps me lieing in my bed
to waste my life with reading.
Maybe all these boks I eat
will change my life somehow
perhaps the words will make me glad
I'm living in the now.
But all these things are stranded dreams
which keep me on my bunk
to waste my youth with other's words
I pray it brings me luck.
of quiet sitting readers
all of us on our bunks of metal
passing our time away.
The will to move is lacking
as nothing feels as real
as living in lands of dreaming
and reading not to feel.
The haunting pat floats through me
it works to make me weep
while the present gives no options
of loves that I can keep.
Pretending someone's out there
who loves me all the time
one who'll never leave me
no matter what my crimes.
It's just a game to make me sad
and wish my life to fleeting
it keeps me lieing in my bed
to waste my life with reading.
Maybe all these boks I eat
will change my life somehow
perhaps the words will make me glad
I'm living in the now.
But all these things are stranded dreams
which keep me on my bunk
to waste my youth with other's words
I pray it brings me luck.
Poem: Dear Heroin
Like God made you just for me,
a gift from heaven to relieve,
if only for a moment,
the pain and trauma
forced upon me
by this rapist
called "life."
You pick me up
like a loving father;
holding me close and firm
in your all-encompassing arms of caring support.
Giving me just enough freedom
to wriggle around with joy,
testing the boundaries of our fun.
And just when I'm afraid
I'm going to slip and fall
you catch me
reminding me
of the love and safety
of your arms.
You are the most wonderful
thing
I have ever known...
And you are bad for me.
I do not know
whose fault
this is.
a gift from heaven to relieve,
if only for a moment,
the pain and trauma
forced upon me
by this rapist
called "life."
You pick me up
like a loving father;
holding me close and firm
in your all-encompassing arms of caring support.
Giving me just enough freedom
to wriggle around with joy,
testing the boundaries of our fun.
And just when I'm afraid
I'm going to slip and fall
you catch me
reminding me
of the love and safety
of your arms.
You are the most wonderful
thing
I have ever known...
And you are bad for me.
I do not know
whose fault
this is.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Poem: My Skull (Love)
When I die
I would like you to have
my dry cracked skull of chalky white
resting on your bedstand.
That every time you see
that bone
you think of the corpse
that loved you.
The empty sockets
which were my eyes
gazed into yours with pleasure.
The hollow skull
once filled with fire
of love for you
now dead.
The frozen grimace
once held lips
which burned
to kiss
your flesh.
And empty nose
which may still hold
mere atoms of your scent.
And though my head
in all it's life
did never get the chance,
to be with yours
through every night
it was it's only wish.
So take my skull
now dry and dead
and place it on your bedstand.
For you are who it lived to love
in death
let it remain there.
I would like you to have
my dry cracked skull of chalky white
resting on your bedstand.
That every time you see
that bone
you think of the corpse
that loved you.
The empty sockets
which were my eyes
gazed into yours with pleasure.
The hollow skull
once filled with fire
of love for you
now dead.
The frozen grimace
once held lips
which burned
to kiss
your flesh.
And empty nose
which may still hold
mere atoms of your scent.
And though my head
in all it's life
did never get the chance,
to be with yours
through every night
it was it's only wish.
So take my skull
now dry and dead
and place it on your bedstand.
For you are who it lived to love
in death
let it remain there.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Thoughts: Times of Happiness
Ages 0-13: Characterized mainly by terror, misery, anger, frustration, and impotent victimization.
Age 14: First taste of freedom. Happiness, exploration, excitement, love, art, freedom, meditation, magic, friends, life.
Ages 15-16: homelessness, poverty, imprisonment, inforced sepparation from friends and lovers, some experimentation, brief moments of happiness surrounded by uncertainty.
Ages 17-18: Frantic fun, hidden excitement, new friends, exprimentation, magic, lovers, studies, music, gloom, eventual isolation.
Ages 18-25: Deep depression, misery, isolation, running, victimization, poverty, homelessness, substance abuse, scattered crappy jobs, few friends, occational brief lovers, constant fear, repeated loss of freedom, Court.
Ages 25-26: Quiet sadness, vague hopes, studies, new friends, small hidden pleasures, music, constant emotial abuse, proud publications, academic sucess, renewed spiritual persuits, incremental acheivements.
Age 27: Beautiful home, happy studdies, wonderful new friends, occasional lovers, a steady and serious romance, private fears and depression, continued accademic success, increase of spiritual activities, music, writing, new publications, a decent part time job, serious medical complications.
Age 28: Homeless, running, loss of all spirituality, alone and friendless, medically infirmed and highly medicated, poverty, serious depression, substance abuse, no lovers, constant reading, crying, no hope in sight.
Total years alive = 28
Total years happy = 5
Total years sad = 23
Final Result = Life is Pain
Age 14: First taste of freedom. Happiness, exploration, excitement, love, art, freedom, meditation, magic, friends, life.
Ages 15-16: homelessness, poverty, imprisonment, inforced sepparation from friends and lovers, some experimentation, brief moments of happiness surrounded by uncertainty.
Ages 17-18: Frantic fun, hidden excitement, new friends, exprimentation, magic, lovers, studies, music, gloom, eventual isolation.
Ages 18-25: Deep depression, misery, isolation, running, victimization, poverty, homelessness, substance abuse, scattered crappy jobs, few friends, occational brief lovers, constant fear, repeated loss of freedom, Court.
Ages 25-26: Quiet sadness, vague hopes, studies, new friends, small hidden pleasures, music, constant emotial abuse, proud publications, academic sucess, renewed spiritual persuits, incremental acheivements.
Age 27: Beautiful home, happy studdies, wonderful new friends, occasional lovers, a steady and serious romance, private fears and depression, continued accademic success, increase of spiritual activities, music, writing, new publications, a decent part time job, serious medical complications.
Age 28: Homeless, running, loss of all spirituality, alone and friendless, medically infirmed and highly medicated, poverty, serious depression, substance abuse, no lovers, constant reading, crying, no hope in sight.
Total years alive = 28
Total years happy = 5
Total years sad = 23
Final Result = Life is Pain
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