Poem: I Dream of a Day

I dream of a day,
in my heart of hearts.
Picture it, in my mind.
I know that if I can picture it
clearly enough,
if I can feel it to be true enough,
if I have enough faith,
enough patience,
my dream will come true.

I dream that one day I will wake up,
and just feel OK.
Feel Good, even.
About myself,
about my surroundings.
About my future,
about everything and anything.

Physically,
inside,
I feel unwell.
Ill,
wrong.

Besides my physical pain,
there is a deeper pain.
Call it "emotional,"
call it "Mental,"
maybe even call it
a "Psycho-neuro ailment complex."
But whatever it is,
it's bad.
Not good, definitely.
It makes me scared,
leads to self-pity,
makes me want to drink
and do drugs,
do anything
to get away from "It."
But I can't really,
because it is me,
or a part of me.

I am unwell.
Inside.
Deeply and truly.

Often I can distract myself from "It"
for a few moments.
Reading a good book,
the first half of a cup of coffee,
a love affair,
cigarettes,
writing,
pot,
listening to music,
or whatever.

But in the end the distraction leaves
and I'm back to my empty pain;
my infinite dis-ease.

A fabulous short-term cure I've found
(since they're all short-term)
is in Compassion.
It always seems to work for me,
when nothing else does.
Like talking to someone
who has it "harder" than me.
Or calling someone on the phone
and really listening to them.
Not just waiting for my turn to speak,
but really listening to someone
and contemplating their life
and how hard it is to be them,
to walk in their shoes.

Because truly too,
in many ways,
I am blessed.

And I practice meditation,
and I pray,
and I live a mostly ascetic life;
abstaining from alcohol,
and leaving a lover,
all for my personal quest for Peace.
An end to the pain,
inside of my being.
Blocking me,
stunting my growth,
painful engrams of the past
burned into me so hard
that I can no longer enjoy myself.
I can no longer enjoy myself.

The best I can do is distract.
For a moment.
From the pain.

I dream of a day
when my world
will be reversed.
Where I'll live in beauty
and happiness,
with only brief moments of pain.

I don't know if I'll ever get there.
I have a lot of life left to make up for,
building many walls for much too long.

It seems to be getting better.
Inches and centimeters at a time.
I dream of a day.
Yet the "Feeler" is only
a human ego; fragile at best.

I wasn't always like this.
I remember days,
barely,
when I knew who I was.
Despite the violent beatings
and a life of unavoidable lies,
suppression,
imprisonment,
and horror.

Despite the madness around me,
I knew who I was,
and I wasn't part of "that."
"That" evil.
I was good.
I was the victim.

Now twenty years later,
my inner resolve has been smashed.
By more professional torturers than my father,
torturers like the Police,
the Courts,
and the "Social Services"
for the "Poor and Homeless."
Oh, yes;
My father was Bad,
but the World was worse.

Now I'm a clusterfuck of experiences,
mostly negative.
I don't remember what it's like
to have fun,
or maybe I just haven't been able to afford it for so long...

My hearts been hurt by others,
besides my family,
situations I could not claim "victim" in
(though often I did anyways).
My friends you can count on the limbs
of a quadruple amputee;
I'm alone,
with my past and some hope.

I've learned a few techniques,
and I've felt some stings of failure.
To keep on trying,
my only choice.

I dream of a day
when I will feel OK.
Have my willpower again,
self-respect,
satisfaction.

A day I can greet
the Great World
in The Eye
and say
"Damn am I glad to be here!
Now how, may I be
of service?"