Why do I have to endure:

The company of pain....
Emotional
Mental
Physical
Spiritual

Hardship....
Taking­ care of very elderly parents
Being a Targeted Individual
(I was on staff at the "Church" of
Scientology. I left without permission. I'm outspoken against them. They hunt down and target such people... and make their
lives A PURE MISERY)
Being a person who knows the
Truth but is perceived as insane
Being single
Being childless (barren)
Being smart enough to know that
I'm not smart enough
Having crippling arthritis
Having deformed feet to the point
that I'm barely able to walk...

Should I go on...? No.
Instead I shall praise You!

I'll thank you for:

Being alive at all to experience this.
The counterpoint symphony of birdsong... and the beautiful day
The company of my ageing parents
The fact that I still have all my
family and friends
The lovely cacti and other plants
out here on our porch
My extant talent and ability
The fact I can walk at all
Clothing to wear
Shoes on my feet
Food to eat
A roof over my head
Good eyes and ears
The use of my upper body
Appreciation of beauty
The ability to read and write
The fact that I never married
the wrong man and brought
children into an unsafe and
unhappy environment

But most of all,  God, I'm grateful for

THE SACRIFICE OF YOUR
PRECIOUS SON THAT I MAY HAVE

S A L V A T I O N.

THANK YOU! !!!

♥ Catherine

Feeling sorry for myself.
Feeling sorry by myself.
Waiting and watching and pining away
Wasting what’s left of a miserable day.
Humming the sad songs
I hear in my head.
I can do nothing but
Lie in my bed
Feeling sorry, just feeling sorry
For myself.

I sit in the dark wondering
What I did wrong
Or asking myself what I
Left so undone.
It has to be my fault
So I take the blame.
I doubt that I could be
More tired of this game.

Feeling sorry for myself.
Feeling sorry by myself.
Waiting and watching and pining away
Wasting what’s left of a miserable day.
Humming the sad songs
I hear in my head.
I can do nothing but
Lie in my bed
Feeling sorry, just feeling sorry
For myself.

Why do the rules have to be
So stinking unfair?
Is there a referee
Hiding somewhere?
One who can come rule
On how this has gone?
I m stuck with the clues
I just stumble upon.

Feeling sorry for myself.
Feeling sorry by myself.
Waiting and watching and pining away
Wasting what’s left of a miserable day.
Humming the sad songs
I hear in my head.
I can do nothing but
Lie in my bed
Feeling sorry, just feeling sorry
For myself.

Always this, but never that.
Comparisons made at.
It'll never overlap,
An eternal void, infinite gap.

Whatever gold I have,
Falls short of what I want.
Am I ungrateful or what?
I just want this to shut.

An innocent question, I have
I wonder if a time has passed,
If in your mind you had,
An idea of me that dashed.

I guess I'll never stop,
Having your thoughts inside.
To empty faith, I'll hop,
Lose myself, lose my guide.

with no direction or purpose,
we find ourselves
wallowing in pools of
self-pity.
we find ourselves longing
for those who whisper spurious words of affection.
after all it has always been better to have someone to hold
on those cold nights
than
being alone.

**** you!
How dare you spurn my words.
With you it's never what I said,
but what you think you heard.

How dare you doubt the nature
of my truth; would I say
that you are beautiful
and mean anything less?
How dare you call me a liar,
and hold under my feet such a fire,
and beg me "Confess! You think I'm ugly,
it's true! How could I be perfect as you?"

I don't point out my own flaws; in your eyes they're not there.
I don't hold up a mirror to my face for you to see my sunken eyes,
I don't list you every lie, or tell you of all my crimes,
I don't quibble and deface what you hold beyond any compare.
I just grin, and say "Thanks," and let it rest there.
And I try to make you understand, but you turn me away,
and now I'm done wasting air.
There's nothing left to explain.
You were beautiful when I said it, now you're ugly in vain.
And could you see that for truth, you'd be beautiful once again.

But it doesn't matter;
You're too busy raging with spittle,
to listen to the truth that I've painstakingly shown.
And I'm too busy loving you
to allow your beauty to not shine through,
So, I take my leave of you,
tears marring that face you claimed to love so,
heading into the unknown,

Oh, **** you, again!
My words; my feelings
are not yours
but my own.
If my feelings mean so little,
Then be ugly alone.

It seems a bit familiar
This feeling
And expected
Even though I didn't see it coming
But what more can I do?

And what better place to compose poetry
Than behind the wheel of a ****** car
Going twice the speed limit
And half off road

And what better way
To celebrate
The scars
And the fact that God won again
Than to cry tears without feeling
Anything at all?

How can I even be mad?  
You cried, too.
Less, but that's given -
That I expected
Not that I expected anything at all.

But what about Thanksgiving?
What about the place set for you?
And that date to Barnes and Noble
I asked you on months ago?
Who am I kidding, that wouldn't have happened
I only remember it all now
Kissing in the rain
Baking cookies
That money she owed you
Bringing you hot chocolate on the first day it snowed
The way your hips moved against mine
How ecstatic  you made me
And the way I thought I could make you happy too
And the way you seemed happy, in the apple orchard
And when we held each other under the fireworks
On our first date
And that time we talked about the universe and philosophy
And how excited you seemed
That you found someone who understood
Another INTP
A lover worth giving your body to,
Your mind,
Your soul,
Being one with.

I must've imagined it.
I'm crazy, after all.

Sometimes I wonder if there is any line between poetry and prose, or prose and story. Where is this line? What is the difference? Is it some kind of structural difference? The problem with this is it becomes difficult to define where the structural lines are drawn. Is it some difference in the use of language? Anyone who has read Burroughs knows there is very little difference between his language in poem and prose. It all comes down to that old bald thought experiment. If we were to remove hairs from a man’s head, one by one, at what point would he be bald? It must be the context. This is a poem because it is presented as such.  

The thing about it is I don’t really give a ****.

The thing about it is that I’m just looking for something that I do not know.
And I get a kick out of pretending
And sometime something something I’m a little bit high now folks
Because sometimes I need something too
/
all the time
And Some might say that you can get a lot higher without drugs than with them
But at this day and age that’s becoming less and less clear for most folks
Including myself
And that’s pure Thompson
May the great decadent castle topple down!
And I, like a noble captain,
Will sink with her
I stand with hunched broken back
On the backs of millions
Pondering lifelessly

I smell something. I can’t really know what. It’s horrible. I do not know if it is me or someone around me. A woman in front of me has a dark line around the back of her neck. As if that crease her skin collected some errant dirt and she never washed it off. I don’t know but it may be her. Or I may be a ******* because she is pretty fat. And that’s empirical. And I know it’s not her fault, but I may have some sick bias against fat women brought on by repeated social direction. I remember when I thought of myself as undesirable. I did not wash. And I didn’t shower yesterday. And really I don’t know if this line here on her neck is really dirt, but ******* that smell. It’s killing me, and even distracting me from the gripping narrative of the American sedition laws during WW1. Honestly it is probably me, but why is it so persistent? Wouldn’t I fall victim to scent saturation blindness, or whatever that affect is called. The point is you can’t normally smell your own stink, and none of us even notice our own stink. I think there is something in that somewhere. I can’t smell my own stink, and so I blame this poor girl.

my mind is a wasteland of negative thoughts
self-pity, resentment, and fear-- they bury themselves
deep in my mind slowly decomposing, but sometimes are
reborn when I feed them

I would be consumed by dark self destructive thoughts
that would eat me away from the inside, if it was not for my heart sorting and purifying my negative thoughts into good intentions that grow into thoughtful actions to help others

I always thought I could think my way out from the hell I created, but what really freed me is allowing my heart to sing

I needed the help of others who survived their own wastelands
to believe my song was worth singing, their voices carried me
until I found my own melody bubbling inside of me

my heart sings to remember not to loose hope, and reach out to others