Your mind is an abyss sated with emptiness,spore of an ink-jet,
the heart is erupting with repugnant repulsiveness.
Your conscience ravage by your impulsive act.
You indulge in savagery shackled by misery creativity is a mystery .

You diverged from an honest life and now you're perjuring in art you dark-prowlers.
Converged with parasites marauding, Proud-Writers.

Cursed with uncertainty you're embracing lies, in the realm of thieves there's a decaying crown.

[Disclaimer: this is quite long, but bear with me]

Depression is a shape-shifting, ever-present monster. It is a monster that many battle; some slay the beast, others are swallowed whole, sacrificing life and limb to its gaping jaws, but most are stuck in an eternal stalemate, neither winning nor losing.

It takes a different form for everyone. Mine was a deep black bottomless lake that I was trapped in, the dark waves lapping at my neck, threatening to submerge me. It was a dense grey fog, obscuring all of my senses and causing me to heave and choke, unable to catch my breath. It was a python as thick as a tree, squeezing the life out of me, tightening with every move I made. It was a cancer in every one of my cells; a dull ache that couldn't be numbed. It was every one of my worst fears realized, ready to pounce as soon as I woke every morning. It was a constant IV drip paralysing every muscle that I couldn't rip out of my arm.

But despite all the imagery, it was not poetic. It was not lyrical. It wasn't a heroic effort to maintain a grip on reality and sanity; it wasn't a single tear falling onto a love letter. It wasn't how it’s been artfully depicted in movies and songs. There was no plot twist, no knight on a white horse, no epiphany followed by an orchestral swell and rolling credits. It wasn't poetic – it was ***** and lonely and terrifying.

It was dealing with the crippling knowledge that I was absolutely worthless, that if I was to fall off the edge of the earth, it really would not matter; that though people would be sad for a little while if I died, I would eventually be forgotten because in light of Eternity, my existence was truly meaningless. It was night after night of restless, soul consuming insomnia paradoxically paired with bone-deep exhaustion. It was struggling to get out of bed the next morning because the monster was sitting on my chest, weighing me down and grinning evilly in my face. It was giving up – on friends, family, school-work, because I was wearing these blinders that forced me to only see myself and my unworthiness. It was second-guessing my every move, terrified that I would do or say the wrong thing, and people wouldn't like me any more. It was withdrawing into the prison in the depths of my mind, trying to peek out the bleary windows of my eyes but only seeing the monster, pacing and drooling and growling at me.

I contemplated suicide countless times but only attempted it once. It wasn't from a sense of self-loathing or unworthiness, it was because I couldn't bear the ache inside of me, I couldn't bear looking in the mirror every morning, I couldn't bear going out and having to spend time with happy people. I couldn't bear feeling like I didn't matter, that I was only a feeble shadow floating throughout my day. Sometimes I would feel sick, physically sick with the anxiety of having to interact with people, and knowing that I would have to pretend to be okay. And it was hiding, choking, suffocating, pressing down the gaping raw hole inside of me – because, for me, the worst thing about depression is not being depressed – it’s the fear that someone will find out. I was suffering, but there was no way any one could know, I could not would not would never ever let anyone know that I was drowning in a black lake and there was no one to save me. It was no one's burden to bear but my own. My suicidal thoughts weren't about the morbidity of death, they were about the freedom and release from my self-inflicted suffering. Because depression is self-inflicted, whether we like to admit it or not. It is a battle of our soul against our mind.

There were people who would occasionally notice I was "feeling down", or "under the weather" and would ask me if I was okay. And I would always say Yes, though inside my prison I would be screaming and rattling the bars of my cage, yelling No, Help Me, Please. And once in a while I would be given a little note, a syringe of words, Scripture to inject in my veins and chase away the numbness. Still others would tell me “it’s all in your head”, and that was when I wanted to scream YES IT IS BUT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND.  People would try to fix me, but I didn't need fixing. (This isn't something you can fix; I was not broken)

I needed someone to lie with me in bed and hold me until I could breathe. I needed someone to hold my hand and never ever let go of me. I needed someone to sit silently with me in the dark, just so I could know I wasn't alone. I needed someone to trust me to be able to fight this monster.
I fight, day in and day out, against the black waters ******* me down. I accept that depression is something that isn't going away right now, and might not ever go away. But I've also come to realize that though this monster may be bigger and stronger and even smarter than me, I am not helpless.

"Aug." 10, 1911.

Full moon to-night; and six and twenty years
Since my full moon first broke from angel spheres!
A year of infinite love unwearying ---
No circling seasons, but perennial spring!
A year of triumph trampling through defeat,
The first made holy and the last made sweet
By this same love; a year of wealth and woe,
Joy, poverty, health, sickness --- all one glow
In the pure light that filled our firmament
Of supreme silence and unbarred extent,
Wherein one sacrament was ours, one Lord,
One resurrection, one recurrent chord,
One incarnation, one descending dove,
All these being one, and that one being Love!

You sent your spirit into tunes; my soul
Yearned in a thousand melodies to enscroll
Its happiness: I left no flower unplucked
That might have graced your garland. I induct
Tragedy, comedy, farce, fable, song,
Each longing a little, each a little long,
But each aspiring only to express
Your excellence and my unworthiness ---
Nay! but my worthiness, since I was sense
And spirit too of that same excellence.

So thus we solved the earth's revolving riddle:
I could write verse, and you could play the fiddle,
While, as for love, the sun went through the signs,
And not a star but told him how love twines
A wreath for every decanate, degree,
Minute and second, linked eternally
In chains of flowers that never fading are,
Each one as sempiternal as a star.

Let me go back to your last birthday. Then
I was already your one man of men
Appointed to complete you, and fulfil
From everlasting the eternal will.
We lay within the flood of crimson light
In my own balcony that August night,
And conjuring the aright and the averse
Created yet another universe.

We worked together; dance and rite and spell
Arousing heaven and constraining hell.
We lived together; every hour of rest
Was honied from your tiger-lily breast.
We --- oh what lingering doubt or fear betrayed
My life to fate! --- we parted. Was I afraid?
I was afraid, afraid to live my love,
Afraid you played the serpent, I the dove,
Afraid of what I know not. I am glad
Of all the shame and wretchedness I had,
Since those six weeks have taught me not to doubt you,
And also that I cannot live without you.

Then I came back to you; black treasons rear
Their heads, blind hates, deaf agonies of fear,
Cruelty, cowardice, falsehood, broken pledges,
The temple soiled with senseless sacrileges,
Sickness and poverty, a thousand evils,
Concerted malice of a million devils; ---
You never swerved; your high-pooped galleon
Went marvellously, majestically on
Full-sailed, while every other braver bark
Drove on the rocks, or foundered in the dark.

Then Easter, and the days of all delight!
God's sun lit noontide and his moon midnight,
While above all, true centre of our world,
True source of light, our great love passion-pearled
Gave all its life and splendour to the sea
Above whose tides stood our stability.

Then sudden and fierce, no monitory moan,
Smote the mad mischief of the great cyclone.
How far below us all its fury rolled!
How vainly sulphur tries to tarnish gold!
We lived together: all its malice meant
Nothing but freedom of a continent!

It was the forest and the river that knew
The fact that one and one do not make two.
We worked, we walked, we slept, we were at ease,
We cried, we quarrelled; all the rocks and trees
For twenty miles could tell how lovers played,
And we could count a kiss for every glade.
Worry, starvation, illness and distress?
Each moment was a mine of happiness.

Then we grew tired of being country mice,
Came up to Paris, lived our sacrifice
There, giving holy berries to the moon,
July's thanksgiving for the joys of June.

And you are gone away --- and how shall I
Make August sing the raptures of July?
And you are gone away --- what evil star
Makes you so competent and popular?
How have I raised this harpy-hag of Hell's
Malice --- that you are wanted somewhere else?
I wish you were like me a man forbid,
Banned, outcast, nice society well rid
Of the pair of us --- then who would interfere
With us? --- my darling, you would now be here!

But no! we must fight on, win through, succeed,
Earn the grudged praise that never comes to meed,
Lash dogs to kennel, trample snakes, put bit
In the mule-mouths that have such need of it,
Until the world there's so much to forgive in
Becomes a little possible to live in.

God alone knows if battle or surrender
Be the true courage; either has its splendour.
But since we chose the first, God aid the right,
And **** me if I fail you in the fight!
God join again the ways that lie apart,
And bless the love of loyal heart to heart!
God keep us every hour in every thought,
And bring the vessel of our love to port!

These are my birthday wishes. Dawn's at hand,
And you're an exile in a lonely land.
But what were magic if it could not give
My thought enough vitality to live?
Do not then dream this night has been a loss!
All night I have hung, a god, upon the cross;
All night I have offered incense at the shrine;
All night you have been unutterably mine,
Miner in the memory of the first wild hour
When my rough grasp tore the unwilling flower
From your closed garden, mine in every mood,
In every tense, in every attitude,
In every possibility, still mine
While the sun's pomp and pageant, sign to sign,
Stately proceeded, mine not only so
In the glamour of memory and austral glow
Of ardour, but by image of my brow
Stronger than sense, you are even here and now
Miner, utterly mine, my sister and my wife,
Mother of my children, mistress of my life!

O wild swan winging through the morning mist!
The thousand thousand kisses that we kissed,
The infinite device our love devised
If by some chance its truth might be surprised,
Are these all past? Are these to come? Believe me,
There is no parting; they can never leave me.
I have built you up into my heart and brain
So fast that we can never part again.
Why should I sing you these fantastic psalms
When all the time I have you in my arms?
Why? 'tis the murmur of our love that swells
Earth's dithyrambs and ocean's oracles.

But this is dawn; my soul shall make its nest
Where your sighs swing from rapture into rest
Love's thurible, your tiger-lily breast.

Who is the chosen one to complete me,
And to fulfil my everlasting eternal will,
So let her hear my wishes because nights at hand,
No longer do I want to be a prisoner in my lonely land.

She is my forest and river, my sky so blue,
With her one and one do not make two,
My soul it yearns for spirits and a love like you,
For signs and stars and galaxies as my hearts grew.

Since long days, I believe and I'd never doubt you,
Because I know that I cannot live without you,
So give me a chance allow me to confess,
Your perfection, or my unworthiness.

I have not abandoned you Lord
But unworthiness is a desert without mercy
It is how I live my life now
Yet what you planted within me remains healthy

There is room in my heart for learning
Tell me where to begin no matter north or south
What language should I speak
For what is holy is beyond the grasp of my mouth

I have only found within my nature
The drive to inscribe my pleas into the public domain
And into my mind has been revealed
A way to avert my eyes while I confess to you my pain

I never heard a word from you
But what I am feeling is as powerful as love lost
What lingers though is my conscience
And I will rebuild myself no matter the cost

Why art thou staying still my breath,
Who suppose to have long perished?
Why dost thou count me amongst
The living, that ought to have vanished?

To life am I not entitled for many
A reason--am unworthy of being;
Yet with thy strong arm of grace
Hast thou been blessing me, O heaven.

Everything in my body is weary, my bones don't feel like mine anymore, or real anymore, just simple slugs in my limbs begging me to move slowly and slime upon everything.

I'd rather hide in my sweater than face the world today, and I daren't try to hide my yawns and my sullen, sunken face, bare to the world that I am broken and sad today.

I want to be asleep, where I have a chance of waking up and this being gone. But I cannot do that, not yet, I must fight and live to die another day. How somber.

My hair is a frizzy mess and my makeup must be a disaster, I am sure. The lights dance just out of reach, out of touch, out of my way as i wander along the lonely dark path today has for me.

Tomorrow. I want tomorrow, where I can sleep and dream and beg for a life more than my own, to beg for some magic that will magic away these feelings of sorrow and unworthiness. I just want to be better.

At least my sweater keeps my cold heart warm.

O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantise of skill
That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state.
    If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
    More worthy I to be beloved of thee.

A Kiss Is Not a Kiss



A kiss is not just a kiss

…A kiss can be the key

That unlocks

Love

Life

And countless of other

Limitless

Possibilities



A kiss is not just a kiss

…A kiss can be the cure

For loneliness

Unworthiness

It can be

Confidence

For the unsure



A kiss is not just a kiss

…A kiss can be

Recognition

That you deserve love

That you deserve life

It gives you

Permission





So until you find someone

That will show you

Love

And

Affection

...Look in the mirror

And blow a kiss

To your own

Beautiful

Deserving

Reflection

If there is anything that will accompany you in all of your travels it is free will. It will continue its inexhaustible journey exceeding the life your parents, your schooling and your vocational pursuits, dominating your every thought and decision. It will control your destiny beyond any external force or suggestion that is placed upon your pillow. It will neither guarantee success nor doom you to failure. But it will place all manner of excuse, blame or alibi at your feet to be crushed by its unyielding demand that the freedom to choose is a man’s game to be played only by those who are willing to accept the consequences of its exercise.

And what of God? Is it the will of man to be presented the option of paradise versus eternal damnation? For who would dream up such a choice? It would seem that it is no choice at all for the former is laden with streets of gold while the latter summons visions of burning flames and the wish to perish only to be laughed at by a being so diabolical that he exclaims, “And you wanted earthly riches so badly that you gave up streets of gold for the right to beg me to finish you off!” And yet the choice exists in the vacuum between mere rumor and fact; fact that cannot be measured but only sensed or felt. And as you are bathed in the witness of those with the spirit burning from within, you find that your mind must choose its path. And though you are free to choose you will find that the choice is not solely a matter of belief but a matter of self-determination for the choices that you must make about God are not a matter of a single affirmation or denial but a daily choice of good versus evil. And you will be confused by the power of evil because it does not reveal itself readily; instead it will tempt you beyond all that which you have ever known. And you will then know the choice is not one of saying yes and then departing the witness stand; it will be a choice that will become who you are as a human. And yet if God does not exist the choice remains in how you interact in your daily walk amongst those who do believe knowing that some will try to make you feel less than holy because of a particular certainty that you do not possess and some will attempt to save you because they believe they are commanded to concern themselves with your salvation.

And what of truth? For it is said that an honest man’s pillow is his peace of mind, yet you will know that truth may also bring pain, punishment, scorn, estrangement or confusion. To tell the truth no matter the consequence is to say that you stand alone in principle or in condemnation for your acts. It is to say you have no friend who will be protected for his actions or spared what you deem to be real. To tell the truth no matter the consequence is to say you will risk all that you have worked for by raising the ire of those with the power to destroy you or to crush the dreams of innocents who are to be told that their beliefs are those of mere fantasy. To tell the truth is to question everything that you encounter including the God who you have decided to accept or reject for what you have learned about him may be second-hand from charlatans or from a book that you barely understand or from an unbeliever full of scorn or from a believer who swears that miracles occur in this very age. To tell the truth is to never accept what it is that cannot be proven even as you are asked to accept that which cannot be proven as eternal truth.

And what of fear? Can you choose not to be afraid? Is it a matter of only being afraid of imminent danger or of being afraid of possibilities or differences in others? Is it a matter of settling in behind walls, either real or imagined, to surround yourself with like-minded fools, separating yourself even further from understanding and compassion towards those who are different than yourself? For any man who resists the ideas of another before they are fully comprehended or who rejects another because they do not believe exactly as you or who rejects another who believes things you never considered because they lived in another land or who rejects another solely because a flag or a book has been branded as the truth without question becomes merely a mark for those who wish to exploit his mind for their own gain.

And what of love? The love of family is forever. It will sustain you, define you, remind you, inspire you… but even though the blood of your past is always present you must find yourself and remember that a legacy can be uplifting or destructive. And as you become a man you will find love in the eyes of a woman. And she will become your life as your family steps to the periphery. And you will think of flowers and birds and meadows covered with dew as passion overtakes your sense of everything except ravishing her with your life and your body…. But what of separation and conflict… what if the mystery of her heart is revealed to be a horror story so deep that you are consumed with the rage of a man who has lost his mind? Can you say yes without the assurance of forever? Will you know in your heart who it is that you entrust with everything that is dear to you? Your goals? Your dreams? Will you know her before it is too late to close the door to your heart?

And what of you? Do you know who you are and what you will die for? What you will stand alone for? What sacrifices you will make? Will you know what life is about and find a reason to live and not to consume? Will you look to the past and anticipate the future to guide your present? Will you understand the forces that guide you or will you trade free will for chance and wait for fate to choose your path? Knowing that destiny is driven by your hand and fate can be driven by neglect or apathy, will you wake up each morning with an eye on what it is that defines you as a man? Will you live to do good or to do evil? Will you understand that each day is the day to begin your life anew? To make the changes that need to be made and to only use the past as a guide to learning and not as an anchor of unworthiness?

You are loved my son and what you are IS my son and I only ask these questions of you because of my love for you. For I cannot live your life and I do not ask you live your life for me. That is for you and I hope you choose wisely. I do love you more than you will ever know.

close proximity word-compounds are sometimes the hardest to invert onto themselves, to craft a chiral pivot, notably due to the suffix-blindspot of the non-differentiated prefix antonym, even more so, when guarded by close proximity of words such as hubris / hiatus - esp. when was begins one's logical approach, inducing a misnomer tangle - due to the overtly laden verbum similis; and these little schematic squares of extremely confrontational, but also the more so extremely cohabitable ref. points, will always be harder to master, than say: a rigid rhyme schematic of a sonnet.

all this current talk of protecting free speech,
cf. with the writing i'll cite -
well, so much for a freedom that can
invite both the sophist and babbling of
slanging slurs -
      all in all, in defence of the "freedom" of
speech, is just as well, a: freedom for
idle talk - and if not idle talk, then simply
politicised intrigue, that once gained
the ears of salon ladies at liberty to an alt.
to ****** arousal.

and how did this come about?
   oh... well, what people talk about now,
is what people thought about in the 1920s
and the 1930s...
                  
as heidegger points out, regarding a herr
oswald spengler - der untergang das abendlandes
(1918 - 1922 vol. 1 & vol. 2 respectively):
the famous suggestion of a *decline of the west:
paragraph opening -
          why is herr spengler in noting
a decline? not because of the heroic optimists
being correct with regards to this apparent
decline - modernity as the unfathomable
stretch toward a status quo eternity -
and with darwinism, the theory of relativity,
the big bang, quantum physics -
there's about as much worth of a question-worthiness
these days, as there is a needle's worth
in a haystack of airy tumbleweed answer-unworthiness...
these former optimists of the decline
   have turned into ardent pessimists of
there even being a decline -
      
the oeuvre of psychology did the most damage
in the end -
   still mingling with an archaic sophistry of
astrology, tarot and the voting ballot -
       no shred of a doubt that we live in a one
way street of: answers & denials only, please,
questions & doubts, ooh noo noo noo!
         we do not live worthy of a question -
since by question we mean: ridicule being
the only appropriate answer deserved by
asking a question.
              
    it came with the change of hiatus between
   the two factions -
   once the optimists took to hubris -
                   the pessimists take to hiatus -
if we called them heroic optimists -
we now call them optimists in hubris -
  once we called them lunatic pessimists
and ultra-religious leash bearers -
     now we call them: young people who
forgot to take chances, risks, and thrills...
  cushion padded wet charcoals that
have as much potential to burn as -
                               a dolphin getting dry.

and aphorism 105 (VI) does just that,
   100 years ago by my circa approach -
'the west will not go down, primarily because
it is too weak for that, not because
it is still strong.'
  which is why i ask: is free speech anything
to defend these days, when free thought
echoes so many years later,
  and what is now considered "free" speech
is merely idle superstition regarding
a "revival", the last supposed push?

there's absolutely no honour in kicking
a maned dog,
                    and in that act: of kicking
a maned dog, or giving a bowlful of bones
for a toothless dog to nibble on
is just as well... might as well spoon out
the marrow and give the old hag of the west
a pâté to slurp...
        yes, orthographically speaking:
very pedantic of the french to bend the macron
into a circumflex -
sure, ain't pretty, but i can assure you:
i'll be technical;

what the west can be thankful of is that it's
the first culture in decline,
   and once a culture is in decline,
among so many others, the others follow suite -
like a spread of cancer,
or any other plague -
     it probably begins by the european
decadence in not respecting antibiotics -
  infesting themselves with superbugs -
or thereby managing to craft some sort of
immunity to them...
  and they say that ****** if baah baah baad...
big pharma never kills, does it?!

i'm still confused on a close proximity akin
to thesaurus logic of synonyms -
i.e. decline of the west = heroic optimists of the decline
        (it must surely happen!)
or is: decline of the west = pessimists on hiatus?
                  i.e. it will never happen!

ah! that's what it was: i was thinking of hiatus
but wrote hubris instead... d'uh dum dum...

  i.e. the roles have changed -
now the pessimists are engaged in hubris -
                      while the optimists are on a hiatus:
the whole - i told you so...
             the whole i told you so since the 1920s
is irrelevant these days,
   given the great america never again ended
at the beginning of the 21st century...
                    the monologue from the grand ***
degraded from the grand satan is hot puff and
cinnamon smoke...
          
       once more: what is relevant about what's
being said these days? as much as was a passing
observation in the 1920s?
          i hardly think so...
   the so-called freedom that only gravitates
to idle-chit-chat and poseur antics of bravado?

given that not much is questioned,
   and whatever is questioned has lost its allure
to be fresh, to be alarming,
   all the questions asked are plagiarisms,
a dead-end, in imagery: a library with only
one book in it (i mean, a library brimful with
books, but all these books are the same book);
which makes these times so
answer-unworthy - is that they come so
easily, and are usually borrowed from
the same anglophonic sets of ideas,
regurgitated chick food from the peckers of
their parental guardians.
            
         well, if you live in times when people
have that idiotic audacity to ask a question
like: what's the meaning of life,
  why are we here, how did we form, etc.:
   all these inessential "essence" questions -
          and about as many historicals gaps
of memory lapse as a drinking session with
oliver reed in between...
               the only question goes something
like this:
   and ? found myself walking around the house,
walking by a mirror, ? peered in,
   and without a narcissus to mind
to slowly build a curiosity that would turn
into self-love, ? exclaimed: !,
   after which ? steadied by pace of questioning
adding the much needed: ?!
                      
what's as good a questioning dynamic / schematic as
you're going to get, these days.

All my life I have kneeled down at your altar
Sacrificing my innocence and self worth
A lamb who's blood would gain me favor
"the Father, from whom are all things and for whom we exist"
Yes, I worshipped you like a God I was afraid of
Old Testament wrath brewed in our home
And I readied myself to **** what I loved
As Abraham would, as sheep do for their shepherds
For I knew my creator loved me, and called me love
"For he disciplines those he loves, and he punishes each one he accepts as his child. "
By the stripes inflicted upon me I would be freed
Of this shame and unworthiness you bestowed

But it turns out "Father" does not mean "God"
Sometimes it just means "alcoholic"
Sometimes discipline just means abuse
My faith is now placed in me, and the God that made us both.

17 | 31 Poems for August 2017

Let me whisper those sweet words that held together the shattering glass you think you’ve become.
I know that through their utterance you will finally feel your heart beating to the rhythm of our love.
I want our long late-night conversations and phone calls to come to life again.
Because I miss hearing your voice on Wednesday afternoons and the joy in your sporadic bursts of laughter.
Sometimes you feel as if you’re running away from the constant pang of unworthiness that your heartbeat has become.
The world has made you feel like an abandoned church, but in my eyes, you’ll always be a cathedral.
I just wish you’d stop running away from the fear of finding something so genuine and just run into my arms.
I want the chance to breathe love down your spine; I want to be with you until the love runs out.
In a world ravaged by cold wars, our love and happiness is what we should be constantly fighting for.
Life will bend and stretch the both of us into painful shapes, but I know that we will eventually be okay.
During cold winter nights and warm summer mornings, I long to have the presence of your body next to me.
I know that we didn’t come this far, to only come this far.

My heart can not lie and say your are the one.
But I can not seem to remember how I got to loving you.

So can we please start over ?

Can you romance me all over again so I can feel the moment I fell in love with you ?
Can you write me poems again so I remember the feeling of losing my breath at the emotions they brought ?
Will you whisper those sweet words that held together the shattering glass I had become and through their utterance I could feel your heart ?
Can those long late night conversations and phone calls come to life again ? Cause I miss the smile I held while falling asleep and the sense of hope and love you brought to my world of loneliness.

Don't misintepret me when I say it all seems to be a distant memory.
What I feel is real but
A point came in my life where detachment became a way to cope.
Even in loving you I was not really there.

Perhaps I was running away from the constant pang of unworthiness that my heart beat had become ? The skeletons which kept me up at night ?
Or just the mere fear of finding something so real because I tends to "exude the illusions of perfect, yet I fail to commit. I seem to ruin anything good going for me".

But give me a chance.
Can we start over cause my heart says you're the one.

“Just comply with a smile,” he says.
It’s as if he owns you.
To comply means “to act in accordance with a command.”
Commands are what you give to a dog.
That isn’t what you are—for one second, don’t believe that that’s what you are, my friend,
But what he implies is that you are.
Comply.
Submit.
Lie down.
Don’t move.
Shut your eyes.
Stop breathing.
“But smile while you die,” he says.
And you say “yes” because you love him,
But love is not mean to take life,
It’s meant to give.

Say no.
SAY NO.
And make him believe it when you say it.
Breathe again,
Open your eyes,
Move,
Stand,
Shout
REFUSE.
And make him believe it when you say it.

He needs you. He needs you and he hates it about himself.
He needs you and you are woman and woman is the opposite of masculine so
He hates you.
Or at least he acts like he hates you, but really
He loves you.
And maybe he feels unworthy of your love, sweet, unconditional love, so he pushes, fights, quarrels, hits
It all out of you.
Reflects his unworthiness on you.
Doesn’t want to melt, to sink, to unravel, to be loved
To be taken into your arms and held and told, “it’s okay

to be weak.”

so he tells You, “just comply with a smile.”
he tells You to be weak so that he is strong,
or at least he thinks that he is.
really his strength is a projection of the anger that he is
human,     mortal,     weary,     going to fade,
and he’s angry that he’s not the hero of some fictional story—
FICTIONAL story—
where the man who destroys life is the one who lives forever.

what the world needs is not heroes and their damsels in distress.
what the world just needs is Humans.

You are a Human, my friend,
Of the softest and sweetest variety.
And humans deserve to feel loved but it is not Your responsibility to
Love him.
He will go out looking for love when he realizes he’s worthy of it,
When he stops hating himself so much that he
Kills others.
And you cannot wait for that to happen.

Smile, my friend, but smile because You want to,
Not because he wants You to comply like the kicked down & scared little dog that he feels like.
He wants You to feel trapped because he is trapped,
But You are not.
Your capability to love, and love endlessly, is what makes You free.

Smile, my friend, and say no.
Breathe again,
Open your eyes,
Stand,
Shout,
Live,
And be free.
Please, be free.

All your smiles and sweet words,
Feel a bit like an ice pick
In my aching chest.
But I get it your scared,
And I’m not the best you could ever do,
I hope that’s true.
Just know knowing you is an echo
Of my past and empty promises that couldn't last.
You chose wrong,
I’m not on any throne
And you've always known I stand on no pedestal,
We didn't have to be alone.
But I was worth more, than to feel
That I constantly pester you.
I don’t know whether I’m disappointed in
Myself ,
Or proud that I was so brave,
Even if you walked away
And let me drown in that moat of unworthiness
While you mutter repetitively in your untouchable tower
That “she isn't worth the risk”.
Go ahead and merge with the shadows,
I’ll think of everything and hate that I miss,
Every bit of the things that cease to exist.

You won't even let aPrincess in
After ascending those walls
in the face of great rains,
and murmuring bandaids
over old scars and fresh pains.
You coward.

How do I mend my relationship with my body?
How do I hate myself, less?

How could I?
How dare I?

The world doesn't.
It tells me all the reasons why I shouldn't.
                                                      ­                     I mustn't.

I must hate myself.

I must hate my body, that is what I deserve.
What my body deserves

Love is reserved for the thin.
                                the beautiful.

The beautiful.
I could never be beautiful.

It's a lie,
when they say it.
It's a lie.
when they say I am.

I am beautiful from the neck up.

but you'd never use that word,
                            designate it to my body.
                                                           ­  to the rest of me.

The rest of me should be tossed away.
                                              discarded.


Please sir, can I keep my head?
It's the only place I live, the only place I am allowed to be.

I am not allowed to be beautiful. not allowed to be thin.
that was not the hand I was dealt. not my lot in life.




I exist in the world with my shame exposed.

                                                       ­       On display.


Do you know how that feels?




No hiding.


No escaping.


No pretending.




I am fat.  
My body is fat.



and from first glance, you can see my unworthiness.

                                                  ­      My lack of deservedness

It's always there.

For I am a fool
Blemished
By comparing distinctive venues
My judgment
As exquisite and so untrue
To whom I once trust
The people
Of unworthiness
Imprison thee
From a wedding between
A suitor and a darling cousin
But blindness cajole me
With a different appeal
Tantalizing every move
Caught in a snare of entrapment
The family, I once honored
But shamed
Beneath me
As the stones began crumbling
Sounding
To a level of crush bones

It never saw itself as much,
             a rough coat...
  but underneath that where
             its true potential lay.

But when It looked deeper
          all it saw was conflicting layers.
    Then the unthinkable, others saw
his uses but he just cut into himself.


Tears feel as the feeling of unworthiness
             was cut away as layers fell..
but this was like every other
                     onion depressed at its worth.

but everything is special in another's eyes,
     Were all like a onion, layers of dignity.
But even though we don't see it,
      We all have a worth, were layers of an onion..

I cup your ears in my hands then I kiss your forehead, your eyes, tip of your nose, your cheekbones and finally your lips systematically removing your doubt & fear  of my love for you.  
Ten fingers embrace your shoulders; trace  your spine  ******* the unworthiness while kissing entire center of your being sealing just how much you mean to me ; yet your eyes tell me a different  story every time possessing a thieves glare as if you've taking mischievously what was giving
So I lifted & uncleave from you yet before leaving I held your hands turning them palm side up
I kissed your palms unlocking the shackles of guilt that you thought no one noticed  
giving you freedom to live
freedom to be .

Gross exertion, infatuation
    Flagellating the root
Of embellished insecurity
    Begging for a meal of ashes

Early morning pain, infatuation
    A ****** companion's invective
Reminder of our unworthiness
    As we consort with teardrops

Inquisitor's interview, infatuation
    Smiling torture chamber
Turning idly in hand the implements
    That will extract the truth of our ugliness

Gravedigger's labor, infatuation
    Burying our faces in clenching fists
Knowing our hearts have finally done it
    And sold us out for a smile

He was born from the darkness of man's sin-
a monster, a vengeful spirit, and a barter of death
A whisper of an end resides in his breath; and swallows  
up all in it's deathly grey cigarette stench

You'll find him at the edge,
you'll hear him creeping in every corners crack
He will follow by day
as a shadow of every lonely previous night
He'll shine on all your fears before you sleep;
he'll chase you in your dreams—cutting the images of all
your imaginations, a constant knife in your spine

A blade of grass,
he'll valley around your heart and water it's weeds
He'll brittle your skin, belittle you in insecurities,
and beneath his towel of hand- he'll wrap his darkness
around your neck

You'll wish upon a star,
as he's the darkness surrounding
You'll pray to a god, he'll prey on your doubts like
a pouncing predator. His fingers are a remote to
channel your anxiety- a device of your depression
Placing unworthiness in your hand, as a weapon of
your own self harm. He'll cut you from hopes, and
pierce a dagger of misery into your soul

You'll run, run into his arms that he lied a trap for you
An uncomfortable long hug, he'll ***** you until
you feel too ashamed to scream for help
He'll promise you heaven, but give you a whole lot of hell first
he'll give you his curse, he'll curse your very worth,
and leave you bare and unholy—his unworthy curse
He'll disguise his red hand with a bouquet of black roses,
but beware his thorns, beware his thorns

He'll treat you fairly in the abuse he gives
us all. He'll attack you singlehandedly, but
he has a hand in us all

His goal is to raise an army of his slaved cowards,
be weary- fear wears red, in the devil's flowers

Savor the sweetness of bad poetry, the crooked and cockeyed words,
the lame and bumpy thoughts of oblivion
Skip out the jumbled rhythm, and just roll with it
The road is not smooth, the jargon misplaced
Swift the ****, pace by its carcass, caress your stiff neck, your strained eyes
the pen killed the message, the hands tremble in its confusion
It isn’t good, it isn’t sensual or soothing
It clumps in your throat, making disgust, flopping out of par
swing and miss, capture the drive, the stamina to make it through
Make the trudge, delve in the derelict
Can you make out the message, the theme?
or is it so bad you want to scream, or just cry from the injustice of bad lines
Do not line your thoughts in the flow, the swift, but let your soul sing the confusion of its blunted voice, let it bask in its commonality of bad taste
Do not pen out, but pen in
Do not bleep out, but bleat out
Scream your unworthiness, your crooked smiles, your cockeyed convulsions
Give us your bad poetry, God knows I have.

Echoes of rejection skip the beats of my heart
Negative thoughts attach to my reasoning
like swarms of unrelenting gnats
as I drown in the swell of unworthiness

I am blinded by severe self judgement
Covered in the monotony of shame
I cower on feeble hands and skinned knees
trapped in my own prison of nauseating filth

I succumb to the assumptions of your silence
weighed down by bricks of uncertainty
My breathing ever so shallow
as I choke on the asphyxiation of despair

Longing for the communion of acceptance
but unwilling to beg for your approval
I suffer in the abyss of formless chaos
Projecting desperation onto a mirror with no reflection

Aberrant bloom, you doggedly ungrow-
once scarlet, now a pale and formless bud
(much tidier to nip when drained of blood)
writhes grimly down into the earth below.

O! fruitless vine, you hide yourself away,
ashamed to drink the stars' sufficient light-
and so, though worthy in another’s sight,
unworthiness begets a sick decay.

It seems like forever since
i have found true happiness.

It feels like a spark within
me has vanished.

I am not what i used to be

a once carefree, crazy-spirited
girl

Turned into an uncontrollable mess
of binging, purging, hunger, anxiety, unworthiness
and anger

i feel like i am never good enough
or ever good at anything

everybody looks down on me
                        i am nothing in their eyes.