I Am A Good Person

Rambling 1

I am really going to go crazy some day,

I am going to go fucking insane.

It feels like the whole world is against me,

when I know it is not in truth,

but I can't let go of truth nor lie and it all blends together.

What do I want? What the fuck do I even want?

Is it money? Convenience? Freedom? Ability?

Will I come to value material more than I value people?

Will I come to value society more than I value its parts?

Will I erase "myself" in search of a "successful" future?

What am I? What can I be?

Am I able to be more than the sum of my history?

More than trauma, coping, addiction, fear, anger, sadness?

Do I even want to be more? Will I lose "myself" in the process?

Am I even allowed to change?

Keep Looking

The light at the end of the tunnel

Is hidden by a door in-between.

The senses that fall into the funnel

must be processed and filtered before seen.

The fox sees the grapes and cries "sour!"

The faint light peeks through, and the man denies.

But when time passes, hour by hour,

the fox must jump up, and the man must realize.

A sliver of light peeks through the door's crack

for it has been pulled slightly ajar

by the ones who walked off the well-worn track

and realized, inside, who they really are.

The man fears the door, for it is new to him

If he is wrong about the light, there is only evil in sight

This is a dangerous matter - it cannot be decided on a whim.

But he must keep looking, and he must see the light.

He must crack the door further open,

pushing the holy sepulchre's sealing stone aside

for the trailblazers have advised; the Oracles have spoken:

There is only joy waiting for her on the other side.

An Unrealistic Wish

Fair lady, your grace

astounds me. Your beauty is

simply unparalleled. Oh, what I would give

to be one of your faces, each beautiful,

each with their own touch -

immaculate, pouting, smiling, caring, sharp, soft, all perfect.

But I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that.

Instead, I am stuck in this

muck of a body. My ugliness is

quite gastly. I suppose it is nature.

To be a Man, this vulgar, disfigured-at-conception

shambling mound of meat, fucking years of effort

just for the body to be fit and healthy, much less attractive,

and even less so the face.

And don't get me started on the person.

Oh, yes, I suppose partly inherited, but I'm sure mostly inherent -

the rage, violence, crassness, brash impusiveness,

the chaos and unbefitting nature of it all.

Why, I can't even love myself like this -

What kind of asshat would I be to ask for love from you?

But I digress. See, this is what I mean -

Even now I overpower, I crush and push and talk

as if I am the only real person in the world, a spoiled brat -

whining about how bad he has it

to people who've had much worse.

Forget me. I've been

too much of a burden on you. I'm sorry.

Even now your kindness and generosity shine through

my darkest clouds, my deepest woes,

and I'm sorry I waste your blessings like this.

Thank you for your time. I know, I know -

I cannot be one of your faces. I am what I am:

a greedy little shit of a Man who is only after your looks

and even if I had it, it would be fake, a cheap imitation

of your boundless perfection. But thank you for

at least considering it. Oh, and before you go -

I love you. You're beautiful.

A Broken Vase

This vase is broken.

It is chipped, cracked, and damaged.

It is broken like a million other vases.

Yes, it is broken.

Hurt like a million others, indeed.

Each one uniquely hurt, each one uniquely changed.

This broken vase is worthless.

It is broken. It serves no purpose.

It would be better to throw it away.

No, it can heal.

And when it is healed, it will be unique.

It will be a simple vase no longer.

The broken vase will stay broken.

It will never be fixed to mint condition.

It must be thrown away.

Yes, the damage will stay.

But it will be fixed to be different.

It will be unique and special and beautiful.

This is a broken vase. We must throw it away.

I am beginning to believe that the vase is not the problem here.

I'm Sorry. I'll Leave. I'll Go.

It appears that

I have done

something bad again.

It appears that

I have drawn

your ire again.

I'm sorry.

I'll leave.

I'll go.

Am I just

another filthy

attention-seeker?

Is this

another farce

I've made?

I'm sorry.

I'll leave.

I'll go.

Am I

Not even worth

The air I breathe?

Am I really

Such scum

And filth?

I'm sorry.

I'll leave.

I'll go.

Am I truly

Just another blight

On this world?

Should I

End it here

To not be a burden?

I'm sorry.

I'll leave.

I'll go.

Just say the words

and I'll make

my exit.

Just tell me to get out

and I'll heed

your command.

I'm sorry.

I'll leave.

I'll go.

Nothing Left

made in the blind spot of god

a husk of a man without a soul

what is being alive and being dead

it is all the same regardless

I reach for the pie in the sky

as the world turns pale grey

there is nothing left for me here

so I will seek better lands

but I am trapped, held back

by the same chains of my own making

because I thought the sky was evil

for it was not the same grey as the rest

Then I saw them, the people in the sky

So far above, coming down with the helping hand

Even though there's really not much to pull, eh?

Just the sack of flesh and the animal shoved in there

And so it doesn't want to be pulled

To leave the safety, the dullness, the monotony

Why should it? It'd probably just get worse if it changed

and it didn't deserve to be helped by those it shunned

and regardless, the grapes were probably sour anyways.

The Temptation of Silence

Oh, how tempting that mistress is,

to be shut away and not a bother to nobody,

To make absolutely no-one the sadder

by reciting the same pains that ailed them.

Oh, how tempting that emptiness is,

to be quiet and subdued and unnoticed,

To make absolutely nothing go worse than it already has

by moving again to the great god of failure.

Oh, how tempting that nothingness is,

to be perfect and nonexistent and unbothered,

To make absolutely everything nothing, and nothing everything

by emptying the whole world of its contents.

Oh, how tempting that silence is,

to destroy my self in mine own vainglory.

There is only fear left

I am sitting here.

All alone. By myself.

Bothering nobody.

You come along.

To do whatever. I don't care.

You look at me and sigh loudly.

No, what the fuck?

What was that supposed to mean?

"Nevermind." Nevermind my ass, tell me.

Is what I want to say, but I don't.

Instead I take that bravado and use it elsewhere.

I fake strength as I shrink inside.

I already know you do this bullshit on purpose.

This is something you do all the time.

Always ends the same way.

But it doesn't always end the same.

I'm not the only person in your mind.

So why do I assume it is?

You go and argue with the pacifist bastion.

She yells back. I fear it is about me.

I sneak closer. It is not.

This is the second time that I assumed wrong about your yelling.

You have much bigger troubles than me. I am not important.

So why do I always assume? And why do I always fear?

I have no answers to such questions.

I have no solutions to such problems.

There is only fear left in this husk.

Pushing Me

The Day of Reckoning comes and goes.

I think I am free. I act as if I am free.

You take that freedom away from me.

You say it is for my own good.

I see how much you love me.

But this is not the right way.

You have pushed me my whole life.

Everything I am is thanks to you.

All the glory. And all the pain.

The same boiling water that hardens the potato will soften the egg.

The same heat that purifies the iron also makes it soft.

The same hammer that strikes the nail will cave in my head.

Just one more year, you say. Just one more year until the moment.

Just one more year until I can enjoy my own existence.

Just one more fucking year.

That moment comes and goes and it moves ever further back.

You move the Rubicon South, and you move it further South.

The march never ends. We must push to the Rubicon.

It is always the critical moment. Each battle is the deciding fight.

Each time you promise me that the next fight will be the last.

And each time I believe you.

You were pushing me when I was a child.

You still push me as an adult.

I'm sure you will still push me as an old man.

Pushing me right into that open coffin as you tell me my legs aren't good enough.

Time Is A Flat Circle

Nothing has changed since 10 years ago.

I am still that child who can do no right.

I still remember those same fears.

Fears of you. Fears of them. Fears of it.

I still remember those same people.

People who yell. People who hate. People who don't care.

I still make those same mistakes.

Rush-job, know-I-shouln't-but-I-do, idiotic mistakes.

I still beat myself up for it and do your job for you.

The yelling, the crying, the emptiness in the soul.

I still hate myself just the same.

Treating myself like shit, calling myself like shit, selling myself like shit.

I still love you all just the same.

Emptying my bucket for you, burning myself at the stake, taking your place in the gutter.

I still sort of want to kill myself.

The freedom, the release, the escape.

I still am a coward.

The fear, the chains, the inaction.

I am still that child who does only wrong.

Nothing has changed since 10 years ago.