Thoughts: Just Another Person

She's just another person; no better and no worse. Like me, and my Mother. Like a Drunk and a Celebrity. Just a person, a person like me.

Life is not fair. At least it seems that way so often. My love for Her, my attachment, amplifies Her pain into terrible tortures in My heart. As if I don't have enough misery. Why this Woman? Why Anyone? I must keep this in Perspective.

She seems like my All and my Everything. Her words and promises are broken so easily. Of course, We are only Human. And instead of crying over Her for another two days, two weeks, two months, or two years, I'll just have to say to myself, over and over: "She is just another person. Like me, or anyone else."

Yes, it sucks when She is in pain. But it sucks equally when I hurt too, or my Mother hurts, or my Friend Pete hurts, or Her other Lover Joban hurts, or his Mother hurts, or Anyone. We all fucking hurt. My inclination pulls me to Her pity, but Reality Yawns Large.

I love Her so much; but She's just another person. Not a Goddess, a Priestess, Witch, or gifted Psychic. Just another Person. And I can't keep treating Her whims like the Law, Her moods like the Answers. My emotional well-being must not be tied up in this other Person; It just doesn't work. Been there, tried that. Again and again and again.

My well-being must be tied to prayer, meditation, reading, writing, support, and other Practical Measures. Time wasted fighting in negativity, is bad time, ill spent. And in the End, what else do We have, but time?

Poem: Mirror Wall

Even though it's over,
I still wonder...
Who taught you to yell like that, my dearest?
Someone did.
Who taught you to push someone away
while you're sleeping?
Rather than holding them close?
Who taught you that sex is bad?
Who taught you that submission is always bad?
Someone taught you, though you deny it.
Someone, teaches us all.
Stop all your blaming,
of others,
like me,
and look in your own...

Mirror Wall.

Story: She & I

I don't want to hurt her, but of course I do. I love her. She hurts me all the time, mostly unintentional, but the other times... clearly on purpose. She turns all my heroic acts of "love," into petty psychiatric fights which hurt everyone. And I tried so hard for her. She just doesn't see me. See the streets and the pain. When i was crying one day outside she put her head on my shoulder and held my hand.
It was really nice and it helped a little. She NEVER does things like that in her home. She just goes away, blames me, yells at me, etc.

I am not really a masochist, but the way I let her treat me... It's not a good precident to set. Her house gives her permission to act strangely, it seems. Hurtfully always. I'm a natural sensitive, feeling somethings stronger than other people do. She likes to hurt me when I'm with her at her house. Though she may not even understand it, it's obvious; It happens every time.

It may even be the house acting with her/through her. These things have happened before. She keeps bringing me to the house despite all my prior bad experiences there. Why? To hurt me more? To beat the odds with a "good experience" for a change?

I'll end with she doesn't listen to me, the worst of them all. I tell her what I need, ask her what she needs, she can't tell me.
Please tell me. When she did it was, " I want to be your friend, lover, and whatever I want whenever I want. You get no say in our relationship. OK?"

No. Of course that's not OK. It's completely selfish.

Poem: Filthy Black Widow

From the bloody wounds on my feet,
to the underwear I haven't changed
in twelve days; I'm filthy.
All the deodorant in the world
doesn't cover my stench...
and she pretends to love me.

No shower offered,
or laundry nigh,
no nothing offered,
to this homeless guy.

Though I fallowed her where,
she knows I'm so afraid of,
a place that I fear
and have had shanty times of,
I trusted her heart,
thought that she would protect me.
Though it turned out she cared less
and felt more "To Hell with me."

I'm always so stupid,
for trusting in love,
I think it will save us,
come down from above.
But always this demoness,
caring not for me.
Her only desire
is that She is She!

No compromise possible,
no shake of hands.
She must have it all,
and fuck those who stand.

Why must I love her?
This Bitch-Queen of "I"?
It must be my karma
from days I flew high.
When I was a prince
and commanded the slaves.

Well now I'm commanded
by this girl of young age.
I weep for my sorrow
and weep for my plight.
I weep for Black Widow,
who knows not her might.
I weep for her molesters,
who started her bad.

I weep for the love,
that I wish that I had.

Poem: Refuse to Forgive

A kindly woman
she was not.
More like a malicious youth.
The stains on her face
came from the fact that
she liked to control people.
Goddess forbid that she do
something I asked for.
If she did that,
in her hairy-constipated ego,
then I would be "controlling" her.
And she can't have that.
No one can control her.
Even if it would help us both -
to her it's all or nothing.

She refuses to forgive
and refuses to apologize.
Like my mother;
this leaves no option.

She hates me for loving her,
though I don't understand.

Let go
and fall
and maybe
you'll be
happy.

Poem: Christ on a Cross

"I don't care what you think,"
thinking it and feeling it as she said it.
"I only care about the fact
that you are offending me with your words.
How dare you say those words to me."
They're just words.
"Please hug me," I say pathetically.
"No, not after what you said to me."
She replied looking at me with disgust,
like I'm a leper.
"Don't touch me."
This is how it all starts with her.
I just want to be touched,
to be cuddled with,
and she doesn't.

So she makes up a fight
to justify us
not-touching.
Without the fight she is stuck
with the truth.
Faced with vulnerability and trust,
That we all give up when we have sex.

Of course it's always my fault.
Totally and completely.
I plead guilty to wanting to touch her.
Why does she hate me for it?
Why does she yell at me,
when she knows I have PTSD,
and my father yelled at me.
Why does she yell at me for covering my ears
because I'm scared of her yelling,
reminded of my father.

Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.

Why do I love her...
is it because of her Abuse of me?
Emulating my family?
The air gets still as I write this.
Maybe it's too close,
to the truth.

Her house is kryptonite
to my superman.

Poem: Selfish Lover

The most selfish lover I've ever had
yelling at a homeless, family-less,
friendless, mentally-ill man.
From the center of her castle,
surrounded by sisters
and all other forms of her power.

Once she had enticed me into her realm,
surrounded,
then she decided to torture me.
Miles from anywhere,
too late and too tired to
take a bus or train.
She knew she had me
in the palm of her hand.
There was nothing I could do.
Would she use her Power ro heal me?
To help me?
Cater to me and massage my aching body?
Knowing how hard my life on the streets is?

No.

No.

She would squeeze her fist shut.
Strangling me inside,
until I fled,
or until I died.
I wanted to go.
Wanted her to be quiet and just hold me.
I wanted to go to bed so badly,
wanted to sleep next to her.
That's the promise she lured me back there with.
Imagine!
Just Imagine!
A night in bed for a change! A real bed!
And with a woman to hug!
Wow - it sounded like Heaven.
Too good to be true, sure enough.

But she left me alone in bed.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
It's wierd to be in someones room without them.
When I couldn't stand the waiting anymore
I got up to ask her if she was coming to bed
and she yelled at me:
"You can't control me! What if I don't want to go to bed! You always do this! Why can't I just do a few things! I'm not your slave!"

I couldn't understand it, but I knew
my Illusion was over.
There would be no sweet bed for me this night.
No loving human to hold.
It was all a trick from god.
I was so happy- for a moment. I thought,
"I should leave right away,"
but it was too late at night
and I was so, so, tired.
I tried to hug her, to calm her down,
hoping my loving touch would help.
"Don't you ever fucking touch me
without my permission!"

So hugging was out too.
I was too tired to talk
but I tried anyways.
Nothing helped.
She was a screeching evil shrew
who completely hated me
for some reason I could not comprehend.

I thought we were lovers.

After more talking,
mostly me saying ingenuously,
that I'm totally wrong
and she's totally right,
about whatever evil
figment she'd made up
as a sudden excuse for hating me.

Then some mutual crying
and she was at least a little calmer.
I took a handful of pills to fall asleep
- alone of course.

When I awoke in the morning
she was next to me in bed.
I tried to hug her, but she pushed me off.
I tried again and she pushed me off much harder.
The house was a mess.
My things were all over the place.
I couldn't find them all,
especially my favorite sweatshirt,
but I had to get out of there as fast as I could.

My broken heart was heavy
and covered with spidery lines of fracture,
cracked in my chest, oozing pain.
as I started the long walk to BART.
No hug. No wish good luck.

I shoulda just stayed on the streets.
It would have been a lot less painful than this
selfish, selfish, woman.
Who couldn't find it in her heart
to just be quiet and hold a homeless man
for comfort.
She had to "make her point"
by dealing out Abuse
instead.

Sadness upon sadness.

Poem: The Drugs

She has feelings for me:
they are stunted, black, shrivelled, ill-born mutations.
Sunless, forced to grow on sweat and rare vaginal moisture.
These "feelings" for me, this "love", if you will,
is totally overshadowed by the
Titans of Need.

My access to narcotics redefines me
as a Person of Power, to her,
a desirable person,
for the sole reason of my Accessss.
To the drugs she likes ("Needs").

Her time with me
and her relation to me must,
by default,
be defined by these facts.
Sorry for me,
and probably for her too,
But it is what it is.
I cannot blame her,
nor myself,
nor the drugs.
"Society," is the closest I come
to blame.

But I love her.
And she loves what I have.

I don't think she loves me.

I may never know.

Poem: My Lover's Father

The Father of one of my greatest Loves,
added me as a friend on Facebook.
I had to accept, not because of my Love,
but for his acts of kindness to me in the past.
He always liked me and treated me like a son.
Even though his daughter and I
have been broken up for a decade
(She still wont talk to me).

So now I'm my x-lover's fathers friend
on Facebook. God help me.
What if he asks how I'm doing?
I like him too much to lie.
Shall I say I'm doing my best?
Keep it vague and let him infer
that things are well?
Tell him the truth;
My life is horrible and I wish I were dead?
No. People don't usually care for the Truth.
It just makes them feel bad.
Then, of course, whatever I tell him
will go to his daughter Emerald.
*Sigh*
Better to just leave it,
for now,
and see if he sends me a message.
If he does, well...
I guess I'll figure it out then.
Oh, shit.

Repost: Letter from Mom

(this is the latest e-mail mom sent me. Havn't seen her for 2 years or talked for 1,Um... I'm 29)

I resent Tom saying I do not want you to succeed. That is a blatant lie! He is projecting his own feelings onto yours. You know I love you unconditionally and I did everything I could to help you succeed. Doling out money is not the answer at this point...you are 28 and have to learn to stand on your own two feet. I paid you $1000/month as long as you were in college. You knew the rules!

You have convinced yourself (the mind can do that!) that you had a horrible childhood and your father molested you. You did not have a horrible childhood (I have photo albums to prove it) and your father did not molest you. Your father is a jerk with terrible values and he can be really mean but he was thrilled when you were born. We did our best to be good parents. Yes, we were limited but so are a lot of people. Jesus, be a little resilient...you sound like a broken record and as you get older, you are going to discover that everyone has a story. Yours is no worse than others. Go to a meeting and find out.

Also, as your mother I need to remind you, your good looks will not last forever...sorry, but that's the truth. It's life...it's reality.

Poem: Self Importence

The really atrocious part
is that I truelly believe
that I know better than she does
what will make her happy.
That I know what she does not?
No, not exactly.
More like, she does know deep down,
but it is covered by layers of
Trauma and protective reflex.
I can feel it in my gut,
see it in her eyes,
smell it in her hair.

But she does not trust me enough
to let me try.
And I am no rapist
so the world will never know
who was right.

Sad, no?

Poem: Definitions

She said she loves me
and I wonder what she means.
I don't often feel like she loves me.
Is that my fault?
We must have very different definitions
of the word "love."
In fact, no doubt we do.
When I say it
I mean that
I'm trying to figure out
how to spend
the rest of my life
with her...
but only if she wants
the same.
I want to worship her,
massage her aches away,
and whisper words of comfort in her ear.
When she says it...
pfft.
Who knows?
Perhaps it means
she likes me more
than many others.
But when it comes to
making me happy,
well,
that's my job,
right?