I am a leech, a parasite,
Taking others' positivity
And eroding it away,
Keeping it for myself.
My lowest points never last
Being alone is never enough,
Take my hand, let me show you,
Then we'll both have the same point of view.
I am not upset, but I'm asked all the same
and in doing so I become what it was I was not.
I feel the frustration build and bubble under
my insecurities and dashed hopes of dreams,
I see all of my worries and fears coalesce
into the amalgamated horror of everything
I wished would just leave me be, that it would
let me, just for once, be, quite simply, 'me'.
You don't inquire out of spite, or to incite
the unbridled emotion I carry within me, no,
you just wanted to understand what it was
that made me act the way that I acted.
You want to have a semblance of understanding
for why I get like I do, why I seem so tense;
you just want to be the helping hand in the dark.
I don't want the helping hand.
I don't want to need help.
What I want is to be 'normal',
is to be able to get through the day
without setting off alarm bells,
without stirring the hornet nest
of worry and concern that you
hold within, surrounded by all the
good intentions and positive thoughts
that any one person could muster.
I appreciate the sentiment.
I hate the end result.
If there's one thing I have learned,
in my admittedly short stint of breathing air,
it's that there is no black and white, only grey.
That grey seems to be hounding me,
reminding me that it's not as simple,
not as straightforward, as they say it is.
So this is one thing I want to be simple,
one thing that I want to be straightforward.
Please, just understand,
I don't understand.
I don't see that I'm rude,
that I'm coming across as angry.
I don't sense the tone of voice,
I can't hear it back until it's too late,
the words are already out there
and you've decided what it was I meant,
even if I simply did not mean that.
To be plain, I don't think that I think like you,
and I don't think it's something I can learn to do.
Fear is the first thing I notice.
A fear of something unknown,
of an invisible threat
I cannot quite understand.
Then I feel anxiety,
Paranoia seeps in somehow,
Then I cease the resistance,
These ones are for me to sleep
when I can't simply rest in peace.
These ones help me to stay awake
when I find it hard to concentrate.
These ones give me what my body lacks
from food I eat to try and relax
These ones are for my stomach
and its constant, unending ache.
These ones are difficult to swallow,
but help when I'm scared of tomorrow.
These ones feel strange at the start,
but the feelings fade as I drift apart.
These ones ease the pain in my joints
caused by years of stupid exploits.
These ones balance me out inside,
because I'm told that I'm not quite right.
These ones keep my veins from closing
and help to stop my heart exploding.
These ones find the throbbing pain
that fills my skull almost every day.
These ones try to keep me focused
instead of feeling panicked and hopeless.
These are ones I got prescribed yesterday
to fix all the problems the others create.
Can only imagine
I find you distasteful to look at,
and cannot bear the sound of your voice.
I would never have elected to be here
had I even been given a choice,
a choice of where I would like to be,
of who I would like to have been with.
You disgust me.
I know every little secret,
every filthy lie you have told,
and I am not above sharing it,
telling everyone you have known.
What made you think they would go away?
How did you expect to be normal?
You fill me with outrage.
There is nothing you could ever say,
nothing that could convince me that you,
you the pathetic, simpering fool,
are worth more than the dirt on my shoe.
Stop lying to yourself, like you do,
and accept that you don't belong here.
I pity you.
Do you think that you can prove me wrong?
I don't think so, and neither do you.
If you did, then you would be out there,
keeping a hold on what you can lose.
But you're not, you're just in here with me,
and I'm everything you deserve.
I hate you.
I went to see someone last week,
To see them before I fell asleep.
It wasn't quite what I had thought,
An awkward silence over it all, or...
I led someone astray, stringing
I fell, clutching my face, a knell
I did nothing. Nothing happened,
if you look closely enough, you can see a person's heart beat through the skin, the blood pulsing through his/her veins. if you look hard enough, you can see the thinnest cracks on the walls of the most statute, majestic Church. you can spot the spaces in the pavement where weeds are threatening to grow, hear the most subtle waverings in the voice of one with a wearied spirit. but as always, like in movies, the last bit of rope, the very core of what was once so tightly and thickly woven but now unravelled and, quite simply put, undone, is so strong you could 'hang in there' for almost forever until someone or something finds its way to your rescue. nothing lasts a lifetime. hearts stop beating, monuments rot. pavements succumb and spirits fall. but all this takes some length of time.
time long enough to let you think:
... in be flat miner [sic, fic, diddle dick, sailing on the link-link]
He's sitting at a desk in a room that's roughly nine by twelve. In feet, or meters, kilometers or astral light-years, that part doesn't really matter. Apart from the floors of shelves of specific things at dusty rest in the record of their link-link relativity, would be the over-thing itself -- a library of space and time that's left unshaped by the builder of the over-thing, "Infinity and Continuum Construction -- We Build Your Universe."
Which is long for "He's sitting at a desk and the desk is in his head."
A girl walks in, who happens to be comely. Which is a word, today, with a connotation that shares center stage with "handsome." Thank you, Internet, for giving "come" and "go" new, graphic visuals.
She laughs. "Handsome? Okay. Then keep your hands where I can see them." She's smiling at the boy, like Slim, the character Lauren Bacall played in "To Have and Have Not," standing sultry in a doorway and asking Bogart if he knew how to pucker up and blow.
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2013-05-27 14:58:59 (546 words)
* from "sacrilege" (blasphemous) + "mnemonic" (a verbal device used to aid recall), with "device," here and where the fuck not?, being merely how we "shit a brick and fuck me with it" think, thank you, Debra Morgan