Poem: Balance

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder..."
Leaving her I feel a glowing joy;
a shine; a star; a Luck.

Seeing her seeing me leave,
I see a misery; damp-rot;
sadness; mourning.

"That the pain of division
is as nothing...
and the joy of dissolution
all."

The sorrow of leaving
should be overcome
by the joy of meeting again.

For me, this is true.
For her, it is not.

Is this balance?

Poem: Waiting for Her (#3?)

just waiting by the phone,
waiting for that special someone
to call
and say
they are on their way.

It doesn't happen.

Hours go by,
with nothing.

Still nothing.

I know this waiting.

I've been doing it
since I first
fell in Love.

It seems to get
more painful
every year,
though,
sometimes
they don't even show up.

Hours of…
Hope, I guess…
dreams of love.

I fly to her
at a moments notice,
fast as I can,
I love her.

For her I can wait.
Oh yes,
I can wait.

Poem: The Suicides

I believe in Suicide, as well as Euthanasia.
The first time I learned about Suicide
I was in the 2nd grade.
My family life was so tragic
that I thought:
"Wow! Killing yourself, eh?
What an idea!
I never knew that was an option,
how novel!"

So I tried and failed, pathetically.
I tried three or four more times
over the years,
some more serious than others.
But every single Failure
tolde me unequivocally
that God
would not let me die
that easy.
This would be the beginning
of my passive/aggressive
hatred of God
that would trouble me
over the years to come.

I envy Those who succeed at killing themselves.
I feel like they got off lucky,
like God was in a good mood that day
and gave them a "Get Out of Jail Free" card;
letting them come back home early.

For Those who try and fail,
like myself,
I feel the deepest pity,
compassion,
respect,
and brotherliness.

Nothing sadder than
to try for the Final Exit
and fail.
Usually left with scars
from their attempt.
To remind them of their
Imprisonment on this Earth.
Forced to labor in misery.

As for those who have
great misery in their lives,
yet never contemplate suicide…
I am speechless.
I do not understand their wills,
their souls, or what keeps them
so attached to their life.
Likewise they rarely understand me
or "us" should I say,
for all us Suicides.
They look upon me with horror,
sadness, and often anger,
at my merest suggestion
that Suicide may actually be OK.
Might be a perfectly valid life-style choice,
rather than the
"horrible curse of mental illness"
Society labels it.
Making all Suicide deaths
"shameful"
rather than
"Heroic."
"Sick,"
rather than
"Brave."

I say again that I
do not raise death
on a pedestal.
No worshiper of death in me.
Suicide,
against my wishes,
is not meant for me.
Never-the-less I honor Those
who choose and chose
that Way to go.
I honor your Souls
as greater than many others.
Peace to You in Your Other-Place.
See you.

Poem: Another Sad Day

Another sad day.
There is no hope for her.
Anger and Pride
Burn in my heart
like lasers.
She should not have
such a powerful effect
on me.
She does.
Heart aching;
I never want to see her again.
Teach her a lesson about
hurt and loneliness.
It will probably pass,
it usually does.
For now a sad day
and nothing to say to her.
I came,
bringing her love
and chocolate ice cream.
I leave,
full of pain, tears,
sadness and ache.
Another poem to say
"I wont go back to her,
not _this_ time. She has finally
abused and disrespected me
for the last time.

*sigh*

Yet even as I write this,
I know it's probably false.
Like a million other Oaths,
this too, will vanish into the air.

Can I be happy without Her?
Goddess I wish it were so.
Tried recently an failed,
maybe the time just wasn't right,
maybe I'll get to try again soon…

But today is a sad day.

Reprogramming

Hopelessness…
vague and empty.
Struggle pointless,
rewards few
and far away.
Alone,
things are magnified.
The First is so good,
the last, so bitter.
Hardness.
Tribulation.
Constant.
Never-ending.
Everything good
I'm supposed to use less of.
Everything bad
is usually the most responsible course.

I no longer know myself,
my world,
or the path beneath my feet.
Memories retreat
to the time of my young manhood,
hoping against hope,
the answer lies there.

If Sincerity were rewarded,
the riches would be mine.
Every day a little harder,
every inch a little further.

The baseline
of my theme-song
is sad.
Trying to change that
is hard.

Reprogramming, reprogramming,
reprogramming.

I hope it gets better,
soon.

Thoughts: The Occultist

As a young man, the dream of becoming a solitary student of the Occult, was a fine one. Finer indeed than a job or a family, a house or a car.

As a man of full age, Occult Scholar indeed, the gleam of my Trade has been tarnished. For though it can be exciting, to deal with the world of "Les Invisibles (The Invisables)," a human is made a social beast. Remembering now the surprised faces of the older scholars I questioned. Surprised that one so young would be interested in what they surely viewed as a shabby and ill-suited subject: Occultism.

Many have fallen from great heights of Ivory Towers for the "crime" of an academic interest in the forbidden and foreboding subject. To profess a belief in the actions of practical Magick is enough to get one fired and black listed, lucky to ever teach again.

Yet every college with an Anthropology class on Shamanism or Witchcraft, has the class filled to the limit every Semester. The common people "know" about Magick on an inner intuitive level and every year more and more youths are flocking to the study of it.

Though the same college class is often used by the administration to instill propaganda of society and dispel the modern "myth" of Magick. More and more students are seeing the errors of their instructors rhetoric every day.

Again (Death)

I wish I were dead.
Again.
That familiar desire
which I've known for so long.
Steps slow,
eyes tear,
head starts to hang,
nose runs,
My Life.
Which is mostly waiting:

Waiting for my bed time,
waiting for payday,
waiting for someone to visit,
waiting for the miracle to come;
Waiting for my Death.

Not in a an angry, spiteful,
"I'll show you" type of way.
Rather the Death which is
a kiss on the lips
from Eternity,
calling me home at last.
That Death that is the
restful reward,
as sleep to one
who's labored all day.

People say I'm too young,
but none know the Labours
I've wearried under,
nor the sweet relaxation I hear
at the very word "death."
Not the "loss of self"
people fear.

Poem: I Wish (#2?)

I wish my body felt less pain.
I wish I enjoyed life more.
I wish I had a good childhood
and a family who loved me.
I wish I could stop smoking.
I wish I knew how to cook/eat better.
I wish I had good friends.
I wish I knew how to be a friend.
I wish I felt more loved.
I wish I could meditate better.
I wish I could haxor computorz.
I wish I had graduated from college.
I wish I was initiated into *******.
I wish I felt my Life had meaning.
I wish I had more money.
I wish I wasn't an alcoholic,
codependent, 30-year-old wreck,
I wish my father would admit his wrongs.
I wish I had a nice laptop computer.
I wish I were in Therapy.
I wish I understood Mafick better.
I wish I didn't pee so much.
I wish I didn't have to see so many Doctors
for the rest of my Life.
I wish I had a nicer Home.
I wish I wasn't so emotionally/mentally fucked-up.
I wish I had more fun.
I wish I could help people.
I wish I'd never hurt anyone or anything.
I wish my Lover didn't cry so much.
I wish I were more published.
I wish I ever had a chance.

Poem: Nails of the Crucifix

She dangles my heart on a string,
plucks it,
plays with it.
Stretches the line taught,
then lets it slack again.
She is Secrecy like Nepthys,
The Egyptian Godess
of Night-Magick unashamed.
The darkest powers-female
were hers.
The ways to control a man.
For Her just a test, perhaps.
A dream, drawing,
or conscious sigil.

I bend to her time and again.
Sometimes out of Love,
sometimes out of loneliness,
sometimes, i wonder, as a puppet,
obeying it's Master.
By masochism,
through confusion,
repeated pains.
Together again.

My wits are not about me
with her.
Salome, and her seven veils.
Oh, yes.
She will have the head
of John the Baptist.
No matter what.

Though I Love her like Laudanum,
I know the Dark Secret;
She is just another person.
Like my last girlfriend.
Like my next girlfriend.
Like my Mother, like my Father,
like Me.
Like so many people I Love,
who don't get what they
want in Life.

Why grieve for her
more than the rest?
For the World is sadly
not all diamonds.
Do not blame me,
for the nails
of the Crucifix.

Poem: A Land of Grey

I dream of doing well

physically,

medically...

No, not really.

But I wish I did.

I dream nightmares.

About my family,

and screaming,

and deep,

frustrating,

emotions,

that go on all night.

Only to wake up exhausted

and embarrassed.

At 30 years old

I don't want to still be having

mommy/daddy nightmares.

Oh, but I do.

The other nightmares feel so meaningful,

while seeming so meaningless.

"Grey Dreams" - all of them.

Dreams of people I know in reality,

but only barely.

Seeing the home-life

of the man who sells me cigarettes

and feeling how horrible it is.

I wake up from these in chills,

knowing that it has been too long since

I have last taken my pain medication

and I'm going into slow withdrawal.

Dope-sick dreams;

where my astral body travels,

unbidden,

to spy on nobodies.

Witnessing everyday crimes,

mostly on the self.

Crimes of loneliness and isolation.

I blame my nightmares on my room.

Maybe I'm wrong.

Poem: I'm Glad it's Raining

I'm glad that it's raining today.

Yes, I know that I am only writing

because of you.

You, giving me life.

Giving me love.

Giving me hate.

Feelings most unknown.

The aching heart,

the crying phone game

(where nothing I say works).

I see more misery than good

to my works;

Both of us in pain,

is this living?

Is this love?

It seems more like illusion,

to me.

I'm glad that it's raining today.

Hiding the world

and my shame.

Guilt.

Teeth-grinding anger

at my stupidity.

For hurting you

again.

I'm a colossal Monster

and an Idiot.

I'm glad that it's raining .

Poem: SMS Game

I texted again

"Ag. Sorry."

finally clearer of mind.

She texted back

four pages of

anger and spite.

I tried to imagine her fingers

typing so fast on the phone

her fingers

so much smaller than mine,

more nimble,

less swelled,

less,

arthritic.

She knows I hate

long emotional texts.

Has promised not to do them before.

But she does anyway.

It is part of _her_ anger problem,

though she'd never admit it.

Expectations unspoken,

wants not met,

then Guilt,

Shame,

Blame.

I hate that Game.

Poem:Some Don't Even Know

It's like we're

both

waiting, wounded, worried

animals.

Waiting for the other

to come help.

But neither of us

is strong enough

to go to the other.

Angry, defeated,

and torn.

Screaming at our beloved

in "righteous" fury

at their (and our)

disability/inability

to Help.

The World Is Made

Like This.

Guilt the other to action.

Shame them into moving,

then reward them

for obeying your whims.

Like training a pet,

or abusing a child.

Poem: Some Don't Even Know

It's like we're

both

waiting, wounded, worried

animals.

Waiting for the other

to come help.

But neither of us

is strong enough

to go to the other.

Angry, defeated,

and torn.

Screaming at our beloved

in "righteous" fury

at their (and our)

disability/inability

to Help.

The World Is Made

Like This.

Guilt the other to action.

Shame them into moving,

then reward them

for obeying your whims.

Like training a pet,

or abusing a child.