Tag: purpose

writing

An End to The Means

delightedpessimistLeave a comment

I apologize in advance for the mess you’re about to read, I just watched a movie where the dialogue/thought processes of the characters were similar to this, a sort of ongoing never-ending cacophony of words. Sort of dreamlike where you start somewhere without knowing how, and end up somewhere else without trying to.

So afterwards my thoughts were following a similar pattern and that’s kind of how I’d like you to read it. (Or not that’s totally up to you)

I was going to post it without any kind of explanation, but I wanted you to know what you were getting into. A true word-vomit of a pseudo-intellectual run-on sentence fueled by memories and fears and whatever else was going on when I blacked out and wrote this.

Enjoy. (You probably won’t I don’t think any of this will relate to anyone except me lol)

Where do you stop and where do you end and how does anything even begin if you’re waiting waiting waiting

I come to the conclusion that this was all madness and a mistake and we got to but that was your ending not mine you act like you have a right to choose when I had no say in the matter it’s a choose your own adventure which should be something mutual you decide hey let’s go to page eleven not I’ve read ahead and this is where it’s supposed to end-this is where we go and drag me along to whatever future therapist appointment you put me through and there again I see a face your face in everything and everyone and I need to live in the present but what is the present anyway standing half naked in the bathroom fallacies running running in a head that’s turning towards nothing but guesses and wishes and fears

Suddenly the kitten is the cat and the child is the woman and oh she has so much to bear how can she know it all now when she has an encyclopedia written in Spanish French Japanese and she never took her studies seriously so what’s to learn where to go

A poet and that’s all a lover and that’s all a person and that’s all nothing more just friends just hiding behind things no one wants to say or feel or judge to be true if there’s anything to judge at all I would blame you for lying and what is that anyway but a sorry excuse to be blameless when no one can be

You put on a sweater and tell me run on poetry is meaningless coming from a mind half jumbled with numb thoughts of disaster of hope of certainty dashed by someone else’s fears delusions surviving on conditional love a tired old speech falling on tired old ears that never listened when they could deny deny deny any attachment any abandonment any admissions at all

Lying for the sake of it a mother ambassador cell warden general hopped up on concern dished out in quiet mumblings a beseeching of truths too dishonest to matter a frog in hot water doesn’t realize the lies its mother tells until they become its own

A speech from lips shadowed by another’s and who could go on anyway scrounging after love after acceptance after peace after misery after missing love connection home it’s winter and there’s no one to come home to

Not the right kind not the permanent kind always fluctuating nebulous none committal cyclical hypocrisy But that’s just it then toothpaste on the counter never a lover chirping to the sound of diligent waves and a love without conditions was too foreign to calm could not be enough

Figure it out a purring sense of broken edges bent into places you never said you’d take me

The trance is gone.

Poems · writing

Do You Find It Alright?

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How did I get here

How do I know

Which way is up

When will I…

I’m temperate I’ll have you believe.

You hack at me, start it off

One two three four

Who is knocking at my door

Temporal, always, yes.

Buried deep in my chest

Gently tugging,

Whispering

“Have we made it yet?”

Don’t do that here.

Five six seven eight

Resistance, entreat me. They can’t be late

Interesting, be too full.

Every feat, every way, every turn. Undeveloped.

In the morning I’m silver

You’re always light blue

Why do I move. Why do I move

Finish without me I can’t take the cost

Nine ten

Late again.

Shut me off

Been doing homework all day, so here’s one circa January 12, 2018 at 5:39pm. (I like knowing the time. Frames it better for some reason. Better guess at my mindset for weird shit like this)

Poems · writing

A Hot Pocket Haunting

delightedpessimistLeave a comment

Startled, dreary, drool sticking to me, I fall off the couch

What is that sound?

Why do I care?

I look. The microwave is singing.

No doubt bringing some molten cheese or other into being

But for a good minute all I can do is stare.

Wondering, pondering…

…what the fuck did I put in there??

Don’t you hate it when you put something in the microwave, and just…have absolutely no memory of it happening?

Poems · writing

Peaceful Observance

delightedpessimist1 Comment

I want to fall asleep in the sun

Full of warmth and comfort

Impeded by no one

I want to feel the breeze on my skin

Surrounded by flowers,

Pollen-headed bees tumble lazily in.

I want to watch their slow dance,

Entranced by their diligence, their inability to wear pants,

And on the tops of their silly-heads

Two little antennae bumble about

Looking around for the next bloom to sniff out

(Do bumblebees have noses?)

There are questions I suppose(s) that will abound,

Human nature itself is sort of tumbling around.

And in grief, I think, we know this,

Though when that familiar friend leaves for the summer

We pretend not to notice

He was never there.

Without a care, I lie among the roses,

Prick my fingers on the thorns

I will never pick them.

I watch the bumblebees tumble around

Poems · writing

Dreaming Electric

delightedpessimist2 Comments

Sometimes I wish I were an android

My only worry to look troubled and pretty

Wondering if there were more to me than circuitry

Tangled wires and synthetic skin,

Obeying a creator’s every whim

And, what, be a surgeon? A maid? A mother, to children who have nothing left in the world?

I wonder, would I be content with the part that I played, or would my heart remain, rebellious in its strain, chasing dreams that always seem so very far away.

Disillusionment is a jealous game, one I try not to abide in,

How easy, then, would it be to forget any sin, comforting knowledge in the fact that it was all part of your program. Life as a joke. Possibly a gift. Depends on how you look at it.

Cracked rib cage,

(Iron bars)

Heaving lungs,

(Rubber scars)

Beating heart,

(Prosthetic pump)

All parts of me nothing but a lump of machinery. Imitating life.

And I don’t think I could ever really know, without searching in the depths below, whether or not I truly have a soul.

Today, though, today I will stay. I know I’ll find out. Either way.

writing

A Letter To Myself

delightedpessimist2 Comments

Or, more accurately, a series of post-it notes I wrote to myself while in a self doubting spot at work. I want to be a writer. I’m going to be a writer. I am a writer. I am enough.

You have not gone far enough to give up. You haven’t dug your heels into concrete. Your shoes are still intact, you haven’t drawn blood. You have not reached a point to shrug your shoulders and say “well, I tried”.

You have yet to feel the satisfaction of a project moved to completion, you don’t know what it’s like. You want it, but will you fight?

You assume you have reached a place where things cannot possibly get worse. You’re wrong, and they can, but things can get better, too. That’s all up to you.

Now go put books away, dummy. You’re fine.

writing

Thoughts on: Pain

delightedpessimist1 Comment

So, pain. It’s relative. I mean, everything is, but for some reason when someone is going through a lot, our tendency is to say stuff like, “Hey well, at least you have your health!” Or, “It’ll get better, just be grateful it’s not worse”, things like that.

This is…kinda shitty. Yes, thank you for reminding me I have both arms. Yes, I know the world doesn’t revolve around my pain, I know I’m not unique in that, I know.

What would be more productive, though, is acknowledging the fact that people experience all different levels and all different kinds of hardship.

Someone has a falling out with a friend? Their feelings are valid. Someone else loses a pet? Those feelings are valid, too, and no one gets to decide how long or short any kind of grieving period is. We as people love solutions. Cut and dry ways to “fix” things, but that’s just not how humans work. You can only get so far with that kind of problem solving, which is why I love and hate self help books.

I love them, because there are so many kinds for so many people. I also hate them because, more often than not, they’re prescribed as a kind of “fix-all”, like those all-in-one cold medicines. “Cures all symptoms. Fast relief!” Like, sure, my nose is clear, but I’ve also been staring at this wall for the last twenty minutes wondering what flavor Pepsi is.

Figuring yourself out is…never ending. People are different, and there is no single solution for hard times. It’s trial and error, and something that worked last time might not work for whatever you’re going through now.

Something I heard from a lady earlier tonight really stuck with me, though, and (at least for now) her advice has changed my perspective in my own troubles.

It’s basically that, when you’re saddled with a lot of pain, and you find yourself asking “why”, hoping, praying for better circumstances or some kind of change, it’s better to look at yourself.

Most of the time we don’t have a choice over what goes on in our lives, and that can be really devastating, that lack of control. So her thing was, “there’s a reason for everything”.

Okay, alright, I can feel the eye rolls. Just hold on, geez!

There’s a reason for everything, and sometimes the thing you need to focus on changing is not actually the circumstances, but you. All suffering is not in vain, so since you can rarely change something you don’t like, it only makes sense to focus on improving yourself.

When things are all good, when you’re happy? It’s hard to change. Definitely not impossible, but it’s hard to find motivation. You don’t want to fuck it up by going around making tweaks to yourself and whatever. You want to enjoy the happiness you have.

So once you’re thrown into chaos, your heart kind of clenches up and (I know I personally do this) you throw a pity party for yourself. That does just about nothing, though. By all means, be sad. Pain is relative, remember, but once you start looking for solutions, maybe look to yourself first instead of your situation.

And, obviously, if your situation is that you’re choking in a restaurant or something, that’s not the time to be doing any soul searching. Get to a hospital, you maniac, stop writing things down in your Feelings journal.

But yeah so, if things in your life are out of control, and you feel like nothing matters, you’re right!

Okay, kidding, sorry. Two jokes in a row. Bad form.

It’s kind of true, though. You don’t have control over how people receive your words, and sometimes you don’t have any way to fix things going on in your life. The only thing you really have control over is you.

You decide how you receive pain and what you’re going to do with it. Take advantage of whatever shit has been thrown your way and use it to become a truer version of yourself! It probably won’t change your situation(s), but at least you’ll know yourself a little better.

Obviously, this is a universal solution, being able to change yourself through pain, so you’re welcome for this discovery of mine.

What?? Are you seriously going to just accept that after everything I said? God. You need more help than I do. Fortunately, I know of a self help book that did wonders for a friend of mine I can recommend to you…

Poems · writing

Uncomfortably Numb

delightedpessimistLeave a comment

Lake of liquid steel


Rain-slick jewels run bloody in the street


Feeling…Numb, lately. 


Not comfortably so, no,


Far from it. 


I feel numb in the way that you can walk on and on not really knowing or caring where to. A sentiment that is far from the long and warm wandering of summers gone by


I feel numb in the way that light is now always too bright, too dull. Colors explode in the waters below me. I’m in awe of the headaches they bring on. 


I feel numb in the way that songs die in your throat, inspiration spreading thin over the din of voices crowding your thoughts. I drive on. Choked by sound.


I feel numb in the way that people have been so, so draining to me. Constantly in a state of instability, unwilling to be with company, yet dreading the way home. Not wanting to be alone.


I’m forced, I find, to fervently speak my mind. 


I cannot be silent anymore, but I have to ask myself,


Who is this all for?