Identity.  What are the things that make you, you?  What are the things that make me, me?  To wake up each day knowing that it is different from the last, but still I feel as if I am the person of yesterday.  My eyes gazed into the ether and abyss stares back.  My mind wanders around memories, nightmares, emotional relics, and there my faceless friends, fear, shame, and guilt.  Nervous to be, anxious to act, paralyzed by my doubt, and to live is to be guided by pain.

Indifference and numbness passively guide me into tomorrow.  Each night restless from the last, each second filled with invasive criticisms and judgements to affirm my parasitic existence.  Lost and confused, I pick up pieces of pathetic me.  Today, the day is bright but but my insides are filled with thunderous clouds, black, and grey.  My body is arrested, my mind preoccupied with infinite scenarios of what if, corrections, discipline, and defeat.

Years have gone by, still I awake to the dull pain of being.  Never did I understand what joy, laughter, humor, or happiness was for that matter and it has nothing to do with me and I had nothing to do with it.  My attitude demure with confusion as what is right and what is wrong, forward is the only place to go, I move.  Each morning white dawn breaking the sky, like smiles breaking the faces of people.  My day begins with mending the memories, further into delusion, further into denial, and the façade hides my genuine me, I begin to countdown the seconds when I would need to trade one form of torture for another.  

Stress and anticipation overwhelm my realities that each day I wonder if today I might see blood flow instead of tears pouring, or feel the throbbing sting of parental love as a horse riding crop splits my back into two, then into pieces, perhaps the gentle touch of disappointment and neglect would bring mercy.  My little self, frustrated with myself, loathe my little self, would begin to break from reality that is to dissociate myself from the things that evoke emotions, to feel is to hurt, to hurt is to suffer, and to suffer is to live.  

Each day I pick up the memories I left at the bus stop, either coming or going to go to school.  Years had already gone by, emotions never realized, never affirmed, or never fully developed.  It was okay see those around me fall victims to their own devices.  I did not care that those who spoke about hair, here and there, that sensations from another were god sent.  To listen to those three to four years ahead of me, as I quietly do my work so that I have none to do at home.  The exploits of teenage boys and their pseudo ****** experiences, when an older man waits for me with **** in hand.  To suffer is to live.

I wasn’t different nor was I special but always a little person with no identity except as an adult stuck in the body of child as a boy.  Each day filled with chores, homework, ****, deceit, anxiety, and depression.  Somedays I would move my skin over the iron ore of the wooden axe to remind myself that sharpness are the experiences of life.  The sensation would inspire a perverted smile, almost a tickle, razors edge is a place where I dwell.  Careful I am, I move further to away from me, I am without saving, without rescue, without forgiveness, and without humanity, fri-enemies and defeat keep me comfort as I waste away days in hopes of a harmless demise.  I feel better.

Sweet Guy (+) & Villain Guy (-)

...

+What to do today?  Breakfast, Lunch, & Dinner & Dessert
-Whose heart to break?  Jeff, James, Jacob, or Robert

+with merriment, I shall enjoy my day with pals, Lunch with Rebecca
-to **** her husband after she leaves to work, again…

+nervousness and an un-genuine smile, dare I say, How are you?
-do complain about your companion for I ****** you and him once in a day, again

+my body, relieved my stress voided tis natural, a bro-mance
-How little do you know as to why your not pregnant, because our ‘mo be shootin blanks.

...

The day is young and I am little,

My little hands aches with pain

Frozen, I hear my heart beat in my ears

My little body shakes, my voice whimpers

I can’t cry, my little hands are paralyzed

Its only Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday

Why do those who drink become ugly, why do those who scream become silent?

Life is already a disappointment.

Hope is only torture.

Sensations writhe within as my heart beat and counts down another minute.

Pain, however dull or excruciating is my only reminder that I am fragile, not strong.

Live or Die, there is no in between.  

Contemplate and hold in disgust the doings of everyday experiences, tis a chore, not a celebrated ritual.  

Often times, my ears are spoiled by the noise of whimpers of weakness, those who speak much about nothing squirm to find comfort in their own skin, critics of lived experiences, less than divine judgment givers, soul crushers, spirit thieves, those ******* body despisers.  

The pursuit of happiness is only an exercise in futility, with exception of accepting, just be.  

Those unsatisfied the with the sacredness of breath, those that dwell in the abyss and wonder about the unquenchable thirst of an alcoholic palate, or yearn to taste uami from digesting chemistry sets, such ugliness that is exudes from an attitude so pristine.  

I dare to die each day in that way I would know what it is like to live.  Today, I sped past by the flock of sheep, going only 110 miles per hour

Identity.  
What are the things that make you, you?  
What are the things that make me, me?  
To wake up each day knowing that it is different from the last, but still I feel as if I am the person of yesterday.  
My eyes gazed into the ether and abyss stares back.  
My mind wanders around memories, nightmares, emotional relics, and there my faceless friends, fear, shame, and guilt.  
Nervous to be, anxious to act, paralyzed by my doubt, and to live is to be guided by pain.

Indifference and numbness passively guide me into tomorrow.  
Each night restless from the last, each second filled with invasive criticisms and judgements to affirm my parasitic existence.  
Lost and confused, I pick up pieces of pathetic me.  
Today, the day is bright but but my insides are filled with thunderous clouds, black, and grey.  
My body is arrested, my mind preoccupied with infinite scenarios of what if, corrections, discipline, and defeat.

Years have gone by, still I awake to the dull pain of being.  
Never did I understand what joy, laughter, humor, or happiness was for that matter and it has nothing to do with me and I had nothing to do with it.  
My attitude demure with confusion as what is right and what is wrong, forward is the only place to go, I move.  
Each morning white dawn breaking the sky, like smiles breaking the faces of people.  
My day begins with mending the memories, further into delusion, further into denial, and the façade hides my genuine me, I begin to countdown the seconds when I would need to trade one form of torture for another.  

Stress and anticipation overwhelm my realities that each day I wonder if today I might see blood flow instead of tears pouring, or feel the throbbing sting of parental love as a horse riding crop splits my back into two, then into pieces, perhaps the gentle touch of disappointment and neglect would bring mercy.  
My little self, frustrated with myself, loathe my little self, would begin to break from reality that is to dissociate myself from the things that evoke emotions, to feel is to hurt, to hurt is to suffer, and to suffer is to live.  

Each day I pick up the memories I left at the bus stop, either coming or going to go to school.  
Years had already gone by, emotions never realized, never affirmed, or never fully developed.  
It was okay see those around me fall victims to their own devices.  
I did not care that those who spoke about hair, here and there, that sensations from another were god sent.  
To listen to those three to four years ahead of me, as I quietly do my work so that I have none to do at home.  
The exploits of teenage boys and their pseudo ****** experiences, when an older man waits for me with **** in hand.  
To suffer is to live.

I wasn’t different nor was I special but always a little person with no identity except as an adult stuck in the body of child as a boy.  
Each day filled with chores, homework, ****, deceit, anxiety, and depression.  
Somedays I would move my skin over the iron ore of the wooden axe to remind myself that sharpness are the experiences of life.  
The sensation would inspire a perverted smile, almost a tickle, razors edge is a place where I dwell.  
Careful I am, I move further to away from me, I am without saving, without rescue, without forgiveness, and without humanity, fri-enemies and defeat keep me comfort as I waste away days in hopes of a harmless demise.  

I feel better.

With each breath I breathe I challenge the status quo, be authentic, be imperfect, be honest.  With each heartbeat I challenge the concept of time, in perpetuity in this moment, blessed and sacred, the past, the future, and all experiences.  
With each step I challenge, the monotony, the indifferent, the cynic, be it by smiles, be it the silent observer, be it my open minded disposition.  
With each thought I challenge, pseudo-complexities, faux friends, false alliances, spiteful relatives, fake loyalists, and shady lovers, be like water, powerful, assertive, submissive, and passive.  
With each emotion I challenge, the indoctrinated, the subservient, the living dead, the disempowered, and the prosthleziers, by being kind, by expressing love, by displaying compassion and ceasing moments of opportunities.  
With each savory taste of sustenance I chew in amazement and marvel at the texture and the sensation of uami, be it decadence, be it bliss, be it hedonistic.
With each choice made, I celebrate my free will, with every decision, I honor my freedom I challenge the unseen prisons, the culture of maniacal psychopaths, and the assassination of the sacred and cultural genocide.
With my constitution, I challenge those that dare to live, to thrive, to love, to conquer, to ascend, and to create.