Though I myself seem to be quite unprevailing in the subject,
I do commend the habit of getting up off your ****,
yawning your door to the open sunlight,
and taking a look around.
A look around for life's invisible flames,
for the little inferno's which blaze in the tundra like spiritfire.

As mentioned, I've been growing duller to the searching of these lights,
but it seems this could only be the case because I might just have completed the hunt.
I have found my spiritfire.
And upon this realization I have discovered a true reason to to be looking at all. The worth of finding what it is you hadn't know you desired:

- My spiritfire is everything I live to experience on this earth in corporeal form. I don't ever want to let go. -

And from this, I say, readers,

Search for all the invisible flames

As all my peers soar skyward,
kissing the clouds in blind bliss,
I unearth myself from the delta
caked in the sour aftertaste of an existence attempted.

"How do you enjoy the winds up here?"
They ask out of ignorance, not even looking for they believe me to be right behind them.

Well, try looking at the stumbling speck at the ground, *****.
You've left me behind.

I know it's not their fault.
My burden to them is my own doing.
But why would I ever admit that?

I'd rather be rageful.

When we illuminate the tired evening's west horizon in the light of all our invisible flames.

I can’t be proud to be descended from kings and explorers,
Because that pride is gone as soon as I arrived to the world.
Now, I am the son of slavers. Of rapists.
It’s not empowering to be the default.

I am not a victim.
Victims aren’t born privileged.

What a feeling it is
to be born to the perfect putting-down of people like myself.
Because people like me had their time in the sun
And now we must recover from the high which I was never here to experience.

"Colonizer *******!"
"You have it easy."
"She can do so much better than you."
"Why aren’t you stronger?"

For the mistakes of my forefathers,
I am a sin.

I am a good person… right?

Yes, a far too empathic person for my own good.
I weep aloud even for inanimate chairs which are beaten, broken and bruised upon the floor of a 5th grade classroom.

So why is it
that so many of my thoughts whisper of an alternative nature?

“I wonder what angle I’d need to snap their neck cleanly.”
“How easy would it be for me to convince this person to **** themself? If I gain their trust beforehand?”

I am terrified. Terrified of myself and what I might do.
Are others scared?
Scared as I am?

~ “If you relived that moment, what do you think you would’ve said to him?”
~ “I wouldn’t have said anything.
I would have punched him in the throat, slammed his head against the floor and kept hitting him.
Again.
Again.
Eyes,
Nose,
Throat.
I would keep going until my hands broke,
Until he lost any hope in his eyes and lost the strength to fight back.
I want to see him drown in his own fluids as I laugh in his face and in the face of his parents.
LAUGH AT THEIR TEARS!”

Since then, my therapist has not looked at me the same.

I am a good person. A healthy person.
So why am I beginning to doubt this?

Do others really know me as well as they think they do?
… do I know myself at all?

Self-doubt is screaming
- Self-doubt is persistent
- Calm

- A warning
- A punishment
- A reward

- Self-doubt is hateful
- Hated
- Loved

- The part if me I want to be listening to
- The part of me I enjoy the regret of having

- The bumps along the way
- The bumps I fear
- The bumps I hope
might hold me welcome,
if I dive over
and into them.

- What keeps me away from the sun

I don’t want to be here.

Of course, I can’t say that to anyone.
Anyone and its faces alive and happy.
Why should I ruin their day?

I just need to hold on till it ends.
Of course, it’s only just started.
The sacrifice of one for the many.
Right?
But that sacrifice is always me.
And I let it be.
Why shouldn’t I let it be?

Why do I feel this everywhere I am?
I keep expecting that when we leave I can be in a place of peace again,
But it never comes.
The bed I sleep in even is a place of fear and a wish to be elsewhere.
But where else can I go?

Nowhere is home for a martyr of the many.

Laketop after flood.
Thawed fish kiss the surface air,
Bask in Springtime sun

I have so much to say.
Too much.

These words; these perfect vessels I have upon the page,
They should work.
They would work,
But me and my vile Mind have other ideas.

“It must be perfect.
Your poetry has to be perfect, beautiful and convoluted for you to be proud of it.”
In my skull there is a ****.

So much is secured for it cannot satisfy. So much not said.
Even this poem is garbage to me through my strainer of acceptability from truth. A filthy clump of straightforward letters without metaphor. It hate it. I hate this poem as I hate most,
All of which I want to desperately to write about.
Always stopping myself.

I WANT IT OUT!
GET OUT OF MY ******* MIND YOU FILTHY STAINS OF SHITTHOUGHT, HOPE AND HATE!
But my hand will not except the pen,
And I am left only with my vile Mind.

Shall I compare thee to a cradle bright?
Though what shine of diamond gold mighteth beg for comparison’s taste?
Such righteous jealousy fit mere for the maid in the wakest of thy maternality blue.
Thou art always abrighter.

Shall I compare thee to the taste of butter?
Thou art always a sweeter sight; sweeter taste; sweeter touch.
For what canth butter compare to thy winds salted?
Breezes of milk and honey which kisth my tired, loving eyes, as I bid away the sun?

Perhaps thou mightst be held to the mere earthworm? An extension of thy will.
Thy gentle hands. Gardeners of thy Eden. Greeners of the dead and brown.
Ye soft escorts of thy exhausted children; guiding to thy womb; reclaiming our empty vessels in careful embrace when cometh our arrival home.

Alas, continue in such delusional pittings with what fine conscious, I cannot.
If thou beest compared to these prior, thou beest compared to thyself.
Thyself that be butter, earthworm and sun.
Thy maternality to every mater vixitum, and every patron of thy leaf and sky.
Thyself that be peasants of the sand and soil.
That be the tyrants.
That be their toys.
Thou art seen in thy saltwater Saharas,
Felt in thy grass and thy stone,
Heard in the sparrow. In the flicker of a fire drenched in music and dance.
In stories of love and soul.

Shath none dare compare themselves to thee.
Thou art our Gaea. The Earth Mother. Ki.

Summer, let me have Summer.

What once were the lush greens saturated in little stars now eclipse themselves in the spectacular distract of this new blooming fluorescence.

Why must one worth so of envy so be brief?
Brief too as any one leap of intoxic bliss before snuffed mercilessly by a gravity vengeance.

Now, I abandon myself.
An exhausted onlooker gone to capture the light, left now in the pitch and the cold,
Looking on as our fateful blooms crispen, shiver and die, leaving behind a disgorged skeleton;
It’s forked bones petrified lightning clacking amidst in my starved exhale.

Branches bare.
Branches of sorrowful recollection and bitter regret,
For this claim of springtime flowers was but a sly herald for my greenery deceased.

Summer, let me have Summer,
Though I dread it’s attention.
Such fresh green leaves would forever be spoiled with the poison memory of those flowers.
Of that conniving innocence.

Summer will never be enough.