I'm bitter. Full of naïveté and dreams, I plotted an unplanned path to nowhere and nothing special. I ended up here after a long sleep. the images I remember raise goosebumps and feelings of remorse, shame, and embarrassment.

The continual process of hating my self-pity even though psychological projection is validated with tears for others who I view as sharing circumstance.  I look at myself in the face of a child - male and female - throughout all worlds that move the earth. Suffering is synonymous with life.

Some are devoured despite nature or nurture, good or evil, rich or poor, this or that. Innocently honest entities experiencing inflicted pain and swallowing tragedy thick and slowly.

The luckiest children avoid the heavy baggage of the most well-intentioned loving parents and begin to collect their own. Some are born to surrogate parents who exploit children for desire or money; lives created who know nothing but suffering.

"Focus on the positive."
*******!
I can't lie just to fake a smile and I can't ignore the truth to stay asleep.

What do my attempts to help amount to?
How is what is positive not soured by what is true?

I can devote life to the living, but to what end?
The starvation of my family, the loss of shelter.
Instead of lending a hand to the forgotten I am enslaved by a system that perpetuates the long list of sorrows.

Yeah, I'll see you ******* at work.

I'm left with who I am when the night is still. I am a microcosm of everything I see. I don't want to feel sorry for myself - but I am sure that I will.

Death of the Ego and Id

Space vacant. So alone. Deep blue sky; floating clouds.
Dark black sky; wandering stars.

The men who lay dying wont see this.  

Hear my thoughts. If anything, I can offer these to you.

One forgotten. In just this case. She spent her life alone. Once had dreams of sharing her existence and leaving something for the world to recognize. Eventually she took her life to create space for others.

He was a simple lonely child and on his final day; his father drown him in a rain barrel before jumping off a bridge with his mother and sister.

Time disappears in the pitch black of a musty basement. Malnourishment, fatigue, and resource deprivation have drained a broken body of salty tears.

Is the pain worse when the end is in sight?
Time to experience the sharp knife.

How many lives have vanished throughout history?
Who will remember us in 100 years?

I'm still confused
After all this time
I research what makes the
most of you tick.
I can write you down in theory
And predict your stale remarks before you
Sit down for your salad

I am the obscure outline that flashes
through your foggy windshield on a rainy night
You can't predict anything about me,
except maybe an outcome of loneliness -
but-
I know better
and that's too far a distraction
away from your comfort.

Do you feel confused/sympathetic/annoyed
when I'm in front of you?
I'm a dark place where fear is swallowed down
To get away and find happy things
forget me just as easy as it is to ignore me.

I still don't understand
You get 100 and some odd number
Here is my heart
What's it worth to you
1or2. A third one, two weeks later.

Maybe I should embrace your imperfection
Then
You might accept mine.

I still honor 1, 2, and 3
for having the insight to notice me
Throughout your daily intake of dull debris.

"Yell that one out when you get it" she said in what she considered her most calm and gentle tone. Her calculations were wrong though. What she considered calm and gentle still seemed animated and intense to her audience.

By this grade and age most children have been trained to raise a hand to answer class questions or request the floor.

She began realizing more and more that she spent her days within a room of tiny robots, in a building of tiny robots, in a town of various types of robots... situated in a galaxy of dust that accumulated on the surface of the Great Petrie Dish.

This was not where she wanted to be.

All along his path he grabbed the sticks that called to him. There were many in this area which was surrounded by concrete yet, enough nature inside to forget the dull grays.  Still along the way he traded these sticks and twigs for other sticks and twigs that he placed earlier in naturally occurring hammocks cradled within the bark of an old tree knot or between two inviting branches.

Each stick and twig that he moved was followed by a message of gratitude and the intent to do no harm.  A pinch pull of hair from his arm was placed here in reverie of balance and reciprocation.

Walking by, I noticed this and waved to him  thinking, "wouldn't life be a little better if we all ran around in a circle and enjoyed the healing power of play. It feels good to let go." Then I thought to myself, "that was totally awkward. I just waved like a guest walking onto the stage for a visit with Oprah".

I was fat non- hippie backwards hat fried from acid tabs and Hendrix Stuttgart posters for hours while rewinding the instrumental track that followed the song "drug store cowboy" on a dubbed Justin Warfield tape over and over again. Those years floated me from the village on my floor to adult ADHD and a far off gaze.

The neighbors hate when I run around my back yard shirtless chanting and banging a drum on rainy evenings.

But, wet eyes and sore throat from wailing until now-all the words have been written in the texts - literally written underneath the separated layer of paper glued to hide the backside of the material that makes up the underside of both front and back covers.

(The message has also been made in stamp form and has added a nice contrast in colors. Even beyond the red and blue alternative options commonly available.)

In the time of need when you question whether feeling okay is ever a possibility again the gods send messages, within questions, and messages. The infinite possibility of resulting answers are enough to keep you busy...

Enough to distract you from all that pain.

The gods have a sense of humor. Our experience gives them new material for open mic night.

Sometimes, I want to write so bad - but all I see is evidence to deter this disaster...

Stay on the couch bud. Let those thoughts run around your head, you need to exercise anyways. Your badge is so shiny, like a gleaming night sky clustered by stars and reflected on and off a still pond in isolated beauty.

Polish that which you hold so dear to your heart and take it in because the private hours and emptiness are not too far away on any day.

For clarity, it is issued to those who are [no good] less then, devoid of purpose, defunct of satisfaction.  These individuals often debate the mystery, are self blasphemous, and forgettable.  

Many are identified by narcissistic behavior, self-deprecation, self-perpetuated enslavement to ignorance, and lack of gratitude. Sad isolated entities who surpass other earthly levels of achievement by those who are merely existentially anxious and victim to the propagated melee of marketing, *****, and celebrity.

I have cautioned others in the past to stay away from the badged ones. They feel so low and hopeless that he or she finds identity in what has been most consistent. Pain and misery are worn as a badge of honor. Here the fragile psyche finds something to grab onto for survival and self-preservation.

Read and find the answers that explain how changing the way you think about your situation can create a new reality aside from what you know of the emptiness that cannot be filled and the haunting thoughts that keep you awake at night.

Choose your reality, I truly believe. I have been exceptionally effective at creating my reality, it just isn't the reality I want.

How do I fight what I continuously experience. This may be considered delusional or even psychotic to some extent. You choose the difference between a positive and negative experience.

If the subject of that difference is for me to decide - well nothing that I can do is any different than the rest; I'm confident that others can provide the same experience in a healthier and more honest way.

You see I am literally disgusted by my view of this world; the dry plywood planks for doors, the corner of the concrete path where the leaves and dried up dead grass settles to become a dark black soggy paste with pine needles added after it rains, bad breath, and toenail fungus, hair collected in a brush, the warm toilet seat that was used recently, and the sweat under my fat gut fold set me to retching.

As of late, I feel my heart race and my knees shake. I don't remember a nervousness lasting this long.
Am I noticed smiling as much as I'm noticed when I am not?

Still a slave to distraction. I push life aside for petty acts, moments, searching, browsing the Internet.

I can share this part of myself and remain intact.  By the time you see this I will be showing up somewhere unprepared, late, and sweaty.

I will take the thought of you reading these words and remember this moment as I open the door...