I used to look at the world and wonder how people managed to not forgive. How they could bear the burden of questioning and guilt and grudge and "maybe it wasn't them, it was me". How could they cling so desperately to that anger, it becomes part of them. It dominates most parts. It takes over.
I used to watch all the fights and yells and screams that were so spiteful they sounded like an "I hate you" but really, they were just a "please don't leave me". I used to observe how hands flew in the air, wanting to pull away but also needing to hold onto something. How lips turned into a kiss goodbye that looked like a "*******" from afar. How features twisted and turned and gave in to the rage or maybe it was the loss. I don't really know.
All I know is that I find myself fighting with bitterness that isn't my own, it's theirs. I find myself yelling out words that mean nothing to me, that break my own heart on their way out, that I could have sworn I once spoke to myself in the mirror. I find myself clawing out my eyes that had seen too much and throwing them at their feet because they don't feel like they're mine anymore.
I wasn't always this angry. I swear I had a heart once. And there's still something there in my chest where it should have been. But it's a bit harsher, a bit more taunted, colored in black and navy and dark red instead of rainbows and whites and light beiges. I think it might be my soul but that too, looks like the blanket we covered my father's body with. Torn. Filthy. Irrevocably stained. And yeah, maybe it wasn't my soul after all.
It's the thing that reminds me to feel that pain everyday like my own dosage of medicine because if I don't feel the pain then I feel nothing at all and that's not good. That's not normal. But I can't be normal anymore and they don't understand that maybe I had never been and maybe the thing that's cut me open had done a **** job at stitching me back together. And maybe all the wounds are contaminated and the disease is slowly spreading through me and there's no way to stop it. Maybe that's why I get it now.
I get how you don't forgive because you can't. Because you're still having trouble forgiving your own self let alone anyone else. How you yell and kick and push people away because leaving has become another loose thread of your soul that's breaking away. Breaking apart. How you judge because you've always been your worst critic and something is always wrong and if it isn't with someone else then it's with you and you just can't afford having another thing being wrong with you. So maybe that burden of grudge isn't as heavy as your heart. Maybe that tear of goodbye is better done by your own shaky hands than theirs. Maybe you were never meant to forgive, only fault. Maybe you should have stopped wondering about the world because now you can't even solve the mystery of your being. You can't make sense of your own self, how did you expect to make sense of the world?
of calculus the man had no good sense which was plain in the poor syllable count he did on figuring his abilities dense an accounting firm wouldn't pay him a quid yet he professed to being very sum smart though of genius none could be reckoned the error in the abacuses bead part correct numbers of him so beckoned eleven were employed on each line over the roof by a digit he went instead of using the standard ten mine his sonnet seemed so ungainly of bent the final total wasn't quite up to scratch hence his poem not put in the flawless batch
I think everyone has a little bit of schizophrenia. Maybe it’s just the demons trying to whisper you out of your secrets. There’s always a reason for the voices. There’s always reason for the reasons. The voices talk when my eyes go blood shot. Reality left as soon as I did. I left when my compassion did. I keep leaving, its called rebellion. Can you see it? I scream it. I wear it. I sing it to myself as a prayer.
My rotten prayer.
Join me? Raise Hell with me? Lets find my lost compassion while we’re creating yours. I think we could find the answer to everything if we don’t question anything.
You choked on chariots raw. Red egg yolk suppers, churned of the milk oceans this morning you kept. The lintel of stone turned toward dusk. Some great dynasty of submissive spirits catering your morning Out on a cart of muse, forms of heaven cannot even hear you. You are a soporific knot in the tale of your Old womanhood. In this infinite Tuesday morning your small black eyes, like an oil tanker toppling over The intense azure sea- shipwrecked, and lost.
Departing from your childhood you slurp Coca-Cola from a silver straw. From the corner store and inside Winter yawns. There is no face, only strikingly beautiful black hair. The body under you is at home in all My hand's fingers have to fill. All the clothes that you could carry for the two-way adventure. There are Never enough bubbles between your lips and the glass bottle you have. Only the score of the whistleblower. And the poor symphony you had prayed for into the dial-tone phone, the deep Wilderness, that stiff forever-ago budding from your coffee cup. Neurogenesis lifted from your Fingerprints and emblazoned into this lump of human ingenuity. The hopeless octave that cut us all short.
Every short story that was left untold. There are the brief deaths recoiling in your spiritual architecture. The ****** of morphia has bourn me awake. Inside you are often unscathed, vanishing as some of Tonight's parts assemble you, on you blue is a beautiful color. The sweet retreat that gave you life or the bountiful deaths that counted you too cutely by your side. You are the sun in my black coat. Here is my sea, your sea, you'll see.