Unwholesomeness at times erupts,
a simple thing to see it thus,
it clings to me and me to it,
for a place to stay another day.

So if I sit and let it pass,
as a friend I once 'hey'ed,
it will pass by, satisfied,
as a hat-off to a stranger 'bye.'

In a myriad of countless faults, I hide under vague words and a morbid recourse of sordid worded prose. I rarely am understood in the writing, which I normally expect (not in self pity, mind you) because that specific outlet is the only way I know to unleash what I feel and at the same time, understand more of myself. It isn’t necessarily for anyone else. I am a coward, burying my confusing thoughtstreams and heartrhythms in to a metaphorical and vague tomb, masoned and built with rot-brick and acidic ichor as caulk.
　　Let’s be clear; I am not a perfect person. On an average day, I don’t particularly think of myself as even a good person. Sashays of brevity and a courtly manner may indicate a misunderstood and polite soul, and to an extent, I grant that this is true in the sense that I never wish to push my inner self on anyone. However, beyond and inside the carefully crafted facade of courteousness and the feigned smile, I am an abysmal vat. I am a cavity consisting merely of rage, indifference, and unwholesomeness. This is not an admirable trait, something I have never been or will be proud of, and is said as informative as possible rather than in an attempt to intimidate or distill fear, so you may have an understanding of how I feel the things I do as the topics are discussed here throughout.
　　I feel it necessary to begin and end with love. More the idea of it, really. The idea of love is beautiful and enticing, but if I have ever felt it before, I know the pain of losing it far outweighs the joys within it. I want and most wish to be the “writer”, the “poet” even, to describe what I feel for love and yet, it slips through my fingers like water through mesh; Slow enough that I can see it, feel it, know it’s there, but fleeting and never remaining.I yearn for it badly in various forms, because like any other imperfect being, I crave it. The feeling of being loved is one thing, a momentous and great thing, but the knowledge that you love something honestly and purely out of your own volition is a feeling I desperately want to be akin with. I long to be able to put the words together (and trust me, I know a fair amount of words) to describe what I feel about this sensation, of how much I want this sensation, but each time, I fail and fall on the grounds of repetitive and likely plagiarized folly. In an attempt to share the wanton feeling of acceptance in the arms of another human being, I succeed in only deprecating myself and pushing further away in to my own self-hating chasm as I realize that I have again, fallen a bit short of the message I had tried to convey.
　　With all my might and will combined, I will sit for hours and think of a new way to describe the beauty of one’s eyes, or the curve of a jaw, even the floating melody of the voice, but what I describe has been penned before and better from their hands than mine. I discuss the unwilling, devout feeling of being alone, romanticized and dressed up for the show, to entertain in some form, yet in the end, all I can say to myself in this modern world after the verses are written is “I guess I’m pretty lonely.” It is some form of irony in itself, I feel, that so many of the greatest people I know can elaborate on loneliness in better terms than I, while being completely happy with the person they love. I must also grant that there is a flutter of bitterness in me from that, as I slightly envy that ability and situation.
      The women have come and gone, many mutual agreements, some unfortunate endings, but as I exist today, I find myself wanting more than this. I want not to have someone give themself to me exactly, but to give someone a piece of myself. Perhaps they can show me what it means to feel something other than what’s inside right now. I am understanding of the the fact that at this point, this may seem like whiny tripe, but I admit that it feels as if a bit of weight has lifted in being able to finally put in to words a feeling that causes more than moderate struggle in my head. I have never been afraid to die, or had a fear of regretting “not living”, I’m actually quite curious about death, but I’ve recently found within myself that I would honestly and contently prefer to not end life on the word, “alone.”

The only thing missing
is a sore **** feeling,
a vague sense of
unwholesomeness,
and an unusually
urgent desire to
be alone

I prefer the honesty
of a good alley mugging
rather than these missing
moments stretched into
long hours of doubt

Never mind the endless
work of you figuring me
figuring you out

Was me, was you,
was too dark to tell?

Loves me, hates me
and which one of us
in this given month
is clearly going to
hell?

The men who have been
so big on honesty, well
they sure did lie a lot
and the sorting out of truth
from lies and the constant
refrain of I Forgot?

Frankly all of that
has left me cold and
the obtuse angle of your
constant accusations?
that too got awfully old

As I am dear- awful
and old

Loft to a healing ray
Of sunshine, where the pace is to reason
Through the hour, and hope in a delicate same
Worth once forward, and thunder in a look for season

Temples that run
As shrewd as a habit in the couth, to question a friend
Hiss, **** and vinegar, the call of can't for cunning
Olden times and the frank display of a power, come in the end

Temples that fight
With a rolling heat, so secure in its justice
The tale of future homage, the trick in your nostril's, tight
By right's of callous treacle, the irony of succor to rise

Temples that thieve
So sweet a spice of torment and the torture of guidance
Away from the purile, to make an obvious statement of grief
Waiting on the disease, we trod into a haven't, that takes lands

Temples that die
With the been and better lip, of causes we favored in the amend
Of rigors and steely eyes, the climate of when a world has a laugh, all of a right
Have the sign of decision in a youth's care, where we are a heart to lend?

Light's that healed the privilege of silence
Light's that coped with a curious shadow, when might saved ire
Light's that seemed the better of changes of means, into art though appends
Light's that warred in your name, for a sickened stare at unwholesomeness's fires

Light's that spanked your baby with love
Sound bared and a barrier, to know the coming tried and true
Promise of senses alive, with the courtesy of impressions and covenants
And an olive given a real try, at what was homes need for a freer you

©PmcCoywrites 2018

Moments metamorphose into mere memories.
What was sweet can be sour.
Friend today,
Foe in the future.
‘cause patience vexed charity.
If the heart bleeds,
‘Tis because of attachment.
You were once whole.
Weren’t you whole before?
Stop building a monument.
Don’t dismantle an anthill;
that will bite your foot.
Charity will find you.
Decline unwholesomeness when it finds you.