I like to think that I'm not so self-depressing that I would be thankful for every thing I've ever had, and ever been given.

I want to be that person desperately, but sometimes my inner thoughts have a sort of way in which they eat at themselves.

Wait... Go back.

Eat at themselves?

I mean, I guess... The more poetic word for that would be to say that they 'eat at me' or 'nibble and gnaw' like a black cancerous fungus that consumes me, leaving me speckled and discouloured.

Ah, fuck it. If I'm going to be looking raggedy, I guess I ought to be the thing that represents my inner self most, right?

Right?

Huh... No one to answer me. Isn't that philosphical. Philosophical in the way that I'm answering to myself and everyone gets to hear me writing about my more inner insecurities, like I'm painting black streaks on white walls, intending to 'paint the room black' in a sort of sense as if to relieve myself from my stress.

I guess you could say I am, or maybe I'm not.

But let's get on with it now, shall we?

Here, I might lie away [awake*]. Like the ceiling is spinning above me, or I spin below it, wondering when I will ever find peace in my living moments.

Not waking, not sleeping... Because we all know that sleep is a place where the further things chase closest.

No, it is here where I go to mash up all the innate intricacies of lie [life*]. Of the madnesses... Where I can't get back the moments in time where I was tormented by people of lessor morals, but where their deeds form into nonsense where my power goes away.

I hate them.

As I hate the sense in which they feel emboldened, stronger in the places where they didn't catch me in reality, but merely tore at my clothes and flesh with their dirty nails like it might take a bite out of me.

Here, here is the conquest that they sought so hard for. In my sleeping moments.

Where waking only allows me to rationalize that they did not win, for I am no prisoner for it.

But that is fine. This is... fine. I am all fine.

I am not broken, because on some night... Some night I dream long dreams. Some nights, I curl in, and I sleep with nothing there to demean... me, or my family, or any other. Because the only horrors in my reality, is where people damn and curse me with their vileness on untruths.

It's when the truth is laid bear, I'll stand firm and take the blows. Take bullets, take criticism, but when they lie, it's torture. My mind only knows.

I'm saddened that I am found by the torture of people of no morality.

People who-for all intents and purposes-get off to the sound of depravity, of yanking down someone they hate with all their being, like it's a great sense of tyranny wrought true.

But here, they can continue to feel proud.

Feel like they are winning the battle of attrition, and we might all point knives at each other, ready to gut each other like the Thanksgiving 'chicken' and break bread over the corpse to our winnings.

No, I am tired... Tired of the hard sleeps,

Of the nightmares that I'll never speak,

And of villains long dead from my life who's imprints have left marks in my unwaking hours.

I want to be free of it, but it's all my mind conjures.

A personality of all flours [flowers*], and silly -isms, like the ridiculousness born from me might make me blossom into this wonderful (whatever rhymes with this). I want to be done, or maybe condensed. Less... compressed?

Where was I going with this?

Let's be frank. I'll live less. Less in the past,

In my turmoils.

In the place where I close my eye and seek smiles,

smiles of those with glittering white teeth.

Gross, sick... perversions of themselves.

When do I ever wake? Wake up!

God. If there is one...

Can he stop showing me these? These people...

Those people. The ones who mean to do me harm, because it makes them feel better about themselves on this sick animal farm.

That's what I think, when I close my eyes.

When I lay my tired head to bed,

with sickness in my mind.

Because I'm ill with all the things intended upon me,

by those who had no other rational reason.

At least one, I can't see.

Where we all live,

Where I might breathe.

Let it be away from these...

Monstrosities.

That's what I think, when I want to give thanks.

To will away the pain, of the things that just take.

So let me thank those, from their genuine place.

I'm sorry.

I believe you.

I'm just a little... damaged. I'll be frank.

oh me what am i to write

15 minutes and i 've already corrected a typeo

oh fuck me

well, less see, i'm a sittin here in my chair

ain't quite sure but my butt aint bare

got mee a place in the middle o my lair

crotch seems to itch but i don't quite care

granny's in the ditch and i'm laughin at her hair

cuz she needs to get it colored hard to see it in the glare

blah blah blah

i fucking hate rhymes

truly uninspirational

but most of the times

it's what comes outa my brain

nothin but lemons and limes

cuz i ain't got nothin to say

aint' been said before

mind you

fuck you

oh yeah

the truth is i still can't figure it all out

i mean, i'm educated, god damn am i educated

i oughta be a fucking superstar with all the degrees i gots

but ever since i got laid off i said

"fuck you world, keepin it all to myself; my brains and my hots"

cuz i'm a misanthrope, always have been, even when they had me chained up in that fucking office cell, staring at that screen, tryin to analyze and design all that shit, making money for sure, thank god for that, but whew

where i really wanted to be was outdoors, working in a garden, digging holes and planting things, sweatin in the sun, slappin squiters off my back and diggin gnats outa my eyes; true work; man's work, not some sissy peckin at a keyboard, sissy coworkers peckin at every word and image i designed like relentless pricks

no wonder i didn't keep in tough with any of them assholes

but her i am

don't give a damn

lucky on the loose

crazy as a lamb

so that's my story, the reject who rejects, i was fakin it all along, but i got my virtues and treasures: i got a beautiful wife, i got two beautiful dogs, i got a big wooded lot where i can piss where i want, least my dogs can, but they prefer the little "business" area i trained them to use when we got em as pups, and i can plant all them plants now too, veggies, berries, trees, even radishes, specially radishes, those store bought radishes suck like mother fuckers, big they are but tastless, damn tasteless, and a god dam radish should not be tasteless.

3/13/2025

What if someday never arrives? I have been thinking a lot about control. The illusion of it and the safety in it as well. The helplessness that ensues when you finally realize you cannot control everything or everyone.

My friends lost their baby this week. They are the nicest people and this was their first baby. Delivery was for this week... then my friends and I get a text. They lost their baby. A girl. They had decided to not find out the gender until the due date arrives.

What do you say to that? I pray, I know not everyone does but all I can think of is, I will pray for you. I don't know what else to say. Maybe that is okay. Maybe sometimes there are no words. there is only the action of being there and sitting with your loved ones in their grief. I cannot begin to understand and I can seek to understand but only when they are ready and wanting to share.

But I still sit with this feeling of helplessness. I think because of past experiences/traumas in my own life having control is became the source of safety. If I can control my relationships, if my romantic relationship do not progress, or if I don't date at all, I am safe from harm. But what a way to live huh?

I hope one day I can give up on this illusion and sit with the helplessness that ensues. Would that mean I finally embrace what being human really is? Is that what being a human is?

So I sit here on my couch, going between crying and numbness. I wish I could do something, I wish for a lot of things.

So if someday never arrives, what will I do to make sure my life has meaning?

I will write,

I will show up for my loved ones,

I will accept the unacceptable fact that you cannot heal the world with a broken heart... or even a whole one for that matter.

--- Poem time---

Poem for your thoughts?

coins down a well with no ending

if there is no ending where do we even begin?

Come to the wishing well darlin'

throw in your hopes and dreams

and I will throw in mine,

maybe our bound forevers

will become bound together

maybe we can finally find the "more"

that was always present but never seen.

Maybe, maybe maybe,

I guess that is the whole point of a wishing well now isn't it?

------- food for thought---

If food was a time machine

I would eat my Nonna's pasta until the day I die

which would be prolonged by the fact that I will travel back in time

see the eyes of my young Nonna, hard and determined

a nurse with broad shoulders and a stubbornness to boot.

Who stood toe to toe to doctors, protected her older sister fiercely

doesn't matter she was older, my Nonna would never let anyone trample over her.

As I get older I wish I had that sort of toughness that grit. I think in some respect we all wish that we could different from our current selves. Sometimes i think it is such a fickle feeling. I wish I could just enjoy the me in this current moment.

I suppose wishing is a good place to start.

So many thoughts, if I were ever to become a poet, my book would be 3,000 pages long hahaha... but really it would be more long winded than having a conversation with me. I like to turn the attention on the person talking, sharing a little about myself but mostly hearing another the other person, mostly letting them speak. Usually this is pretty easy to do, other times its as if they know what I am doing. I am not saying I am not an interesting person I just don't like talking about myself all that much.

Oh well would you look at that perfect timing as I write about myself... my time is up hehe ;)

Abstract ideas flitter about in my brain

like butterflies navigating a stiff August breeze.

I try unifying them into something,

a patchwork quilt of grandiose dreams

showcasing profound thoughts

that I feel are worthy of sharing

with strangers and sycophants,

maniacs and mentally sound,

downtrodden and dignitaries,

paupers and princesses

in hopes of making a lasting impression

that will forever change their lives.

But before unveiling my work to the world,

I scrutinize the stitching,

then question the pattern.

Thinking that it’s not good enough,

that it requires further alterations,

I tear apart the finished piece.

Quickly I discover that it can’t be resewn,

reassembled

or recreated.

What was once coherent,

vibrant,

profound,

now lies in ruin.

These scraps of doubt then entomb me.

Unable to manipulate the fabric,

I remain immobilized

by a misguided attempt

to cover my perceived imperfections

and bury my profound neurosis

so my frail ego

will be shielded from nonexistent ridicule.

My fingers are trembling but that's not the worst of my problems. You see, I can't seem to figure out my name. That problem, on the ranking scale, is probably second. The first problem is either the looming threat of being sent back to an abusive household or the secrecy, masking, and general gaslighting related to my disabilities. There's also the dictator that just took over my country but I don't think I have to worry about that for another month or two.

Huh, reading that over again I am starting to understand why I have anxiety. Let's look at these problems starting with what I think will be the easiest to solve. I should be able to find my name on a letter or something. Let's do that.

(five minutes later)

Ok, I'm back and I found three letters all addressed to different people. As far as I know I live alone. Now I'm more worried, moving on.

The next easiest thing to solve is the trembling fingers. Reasons they are shaking could include low blood sugar, anxiety, an alter being close to the front who.... I don't know. Let's just assume its anxiety. I have some medication for that but I don't want to take it because it makes it kinda hard for me to think and the disassociation and ADHD are already doing that. Let's go to my next problem. I'm not even going to try to solve problem number one so lets go get another list out of storage. Hmm, this one has a bunch of sports injuries: dislocated thumb, foot bent over backwards and now it hurts, it happened to the other foot, now the other thumb hurts as well. It seems I get into trouble pretty regularly.

Ok, I'm just going to put these lists of useless problems away and go home, wherever that is. See you never, but if you could send money for a therapist it would be appreciated.

P.S: I forgot who I was sending this too. From the lack of greeting it looks like I'm sending it to myself.

P.S. P.S: Good night.

I’ve never been afraid of needles, but I still can’t stop the shiver that goes down my spine when the first needle pierces my skin. I’m almost grateful for the blindfold as I feel the needle slide deep into my right arm, a few inches below my elbow. Another swiftly follows, this time just above my knee. Then, another in the back of my hand.

They come, one right after another. I try to squirm away, but my restraints hold me tight. If they had stopped at one, or even five, it would have been bearable, hardly worse than a bad trip to the doctor’s office. But they didn’t stop. They don’t stop. My shoulder, my foot, my neck, over and over again, the needles prick me, diving into oceans of skin and muscle.

Is this what torture feels like? I always imagined the worst part of torture was the pain, but I was wrong; it’s the relentlessness, the utter inescapability.

I wish I knew what I did to deserve this, what I could do to make them stop. But there’s nothing they want from me, not really. I’m nothing more than an oddity to them, a specimen to dissect.

I’m forced to lie on my stomach, and more needles prick the backs of my legs and my upper back. I’m feeling woozy and nauseous, and I’m not sure if it’s from the constant pain or if the needles are injecting me with something.

Finally, I feel the biggest needle so far enter the very middle of my back. I gag as I feel it go in, every muscle in my body tensing up. I gasp a few times, feeling like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. I can’t pull in enough air. My lungs freeze up, refusing to inflate. As my eyelids grow heavy and close, a voice beside me says, “Interesting, this one lasted longer than the others.”

They chose others over me,

I let them.

I made sacrifices for them.

They forgot who I am,

They are fine never seeing me or coming to my home.

They are ok with always putting themselves first.

I let them.

I always put them first.

They followed the crowd and

I let them.

They judged, misunderstood, and now live without me and

I let them.

I chased them when they were small, I guided them in early years,

but as adults they made thier choices. They know who and where I am. When it comes down to it,

they dont deserve me.

So yes,

I will just let them.