Silly.
Foolish.
Two words
Most unpleasant
When coming from my
Own lips, but
Made moreso because
They are
Self-depricating.

Bet I’m in the belly of the Beast
With this enemy ofMe
Do I fight or flight or Freeze?

Cause either way
this *******’s
coming straight At me

I was only a dark forest away
From where I needed to be

I never metaphor for anxiety
Like this one
*** Imposter syndrome

Mara’s army fires arrows
Of self-deprication
And self-doubt

And i hit the ground running exhausted
Hot and heavy heaving
To the four-on-the-floor

At the heart of the war…
She was doing yoga in the distance
And as she rose to mountain pose
I let my mind slip back into the prose
Where I fetishized her
Like some sacred ******* object

Caught in the act like Actaeon
Watching The Huntress bathing

Basilisk staring me down
Like Artemis cloaked
In her wild fury

And as she rose to mountain pose...
She held a crescent blade
To the throat of the horizon
Locking her eyes in
As she stood over Gaia’s mouth
Spinning up **** Magick

Earth the power back from the word
She channels power back from the void

From womb to tomb
To womb of the tomb

She creates
She destroys
Her body, Her weapon
Her own ******* choice

One

Two

Three

Blood exudes from the veins I've cut

I wonder how it got this way

From the pain of my heart being replaced by numbness

And the pain in my arm replaces any pain I had before

This spiral downwards that was caused by self deprication

Now it's turned into serious depression

Can anyone explain to me how it came to this?

And now I can't stop

Four

Five

Six

I've run out of room and I can't run from these problems anymore

I need to be loved by someone

Anyone

And maybe I could feel again

Feel something other than pain in my heart

Feel happiness and love

Then I might stop.

If I were a chapter
in a book of relationships,
my title would be
“The Learning Experience.”

Third wheel
                             Extra
                                                    Discarded
                                                                          Trash
                                 Time to pull out the self pity
Wrap it around myself tight.                                    
                               A snug cocoon
A supposed shield                      
                                                   Suffocating me unnoticed
From the inside.                

...


Till it’s too late

I have found the one for whom my soul implores me to be bold.
To step out of this box of self-deprication, so tired and old.
Familiar ***-backwards comforts and promises to self,
to never be sold.
Be sold *****!
Mixed up as he is, he IS it!
Not THE one, for there is no ONE!
This mirage is merely who we pick, to settle down and grow old with.
Who we bestow the honor, to be honored, to be cherished.
With whom we make the most of failed patterns, life's trenches.

He IS it.
Be vulnerable, give it all,
ME, your heart and soul.
If he wants me afterall,
after all mutual deceit, decay,
to be reborn, to rebuild and shine gloriously, in ubiquitous, unified heartbeats..this is love.
No different than any other force of nature, unrelenting.

If his spite denies me,
for all of time,
or at least this life,
I STILL find,
I have lost nothing.
My soul was already lost to him,
so what have I left to lose to him?
Nothing...aside from regret,
eating away at my self-love, my flesh.
I'd rather be full and whole,
in patience, virtue, strength and boundless, understanding love.
I'd rather be all of this,
grown past any dark corner of my soul, grown past any limit I have known before, stretching my hand up to the Gods, flexing the growth of all I have endured.

I love to be who I never was,
rather than a skeleton,
crouching behind a closed door.
A shell for the next man to come, every beautiful gesture inviting moths to perch these broken bones til they fall to dust,
as they did for him,
when he tried reclining into them.
This scene was obscured by a pretty smile, that stood as a remnant of who I was. Glassy eyed mirrors, shining back what might be love, or band-aid'd pride, a shell of who he was. My skin, a tally sheet, record kept of gains and losses. With mournful regret and contempt it'd be again inscribed..if I wandered off, giving up, licking my wounds of pride.

The only way left
to proliferate my cells,
to fill this hole in my chest,
is to give my soul bowed down,
freed from the chains of contempt.
Hold my hand and transcend this madness.
Afterall, you did say you love me. Perhaps you meant it for the fifty-third time. Or turn on your heel and there's reality, circumscribed. Some can say love and never mean it, not even knowing they've lied.