Transition Through Fear

Control your fear,
Deaden your senses,
Listless solitude is the perfect fuel
For an existential crisis.
I’ve slowly eroded,
Turned to dust and resurfaced,
I’ve un-become the thing
That hated who I was,
The thing that hated everything
To escape what it hated being.
I can remember trembling,
A dead weight swiftly lifted,
Before recognizing myself clearly
And collapsing to the dirt.
My body is a prison,
My brain the sadistic jailer,
Holding down its prisoner
At the bottom of a well.
A glimmer in the chasm
Made to bury shameful secrets.

Looking out, it screams,
Being seen like naked eyes.
Repression is a disguise as
Recognition imbibes pain.
I am the thing that hates,
Projecting but what it contains,
Nothing but the distaste
For what I was afraid of being.
Captivity is a ritual,
As survival is to pain,
Avenging a broken heart
Buried beneath cold sentiments.
Weakness, being me,
Being something ugly,
Guilty and fragile,
And tempestuously charged.
I’m become the domineer,
Steering everything to crash
For bitterness, the sake of
The empty shape I cast.
Without a real feeling
To tamper my identity,
I freely hate the feelings
I’ve hated holding in me.
You’re everything I need,
That I vehemently despise,
Reminding me what’s real
And why I’m not really fine.
My blood draws a stop,
Distress signals overload,
Impulsively shutting down
Self-awareness and empathy.
An empty shape won’t ease,
It’s an insatiable thing,
And I’ve almost eaten
Everything I truly love
To blind myself from seeing.
Now, I’ve given in,
Unearthed the buried creature
I’d sheltered in a cage
To keep it from ever feeling.
I needed space to breathe,
Shelter, so I could think,
Awestruck by the callousness
And brutality of living.
It’s a graveyard
And a hornets’ nest,
Fear not to be feared
Not being dangerous.
I’ve tasted the comforts of malignancy.
I’ve torn my ego from its shell,
That agoraphobic parasite
I clung to like a life-vest.
I needed strength,
And the safest place to hide
For a fragile little thing
Is deep inside its mind.
Revealing an honest form,
Freshly embracing empathy and connection,
I can finally face your solemn eyes,
Even though I’m terrified.
I’ll live with myself,
Finally, I’ll risk being me,
To live for these moments
Without regret in the way.
I cannot be changed,
But I can grow and adapt,
And if we can share a love,
Or a struggle, I’ll do my best.

Assembling Meaning

Every story

Is an empathetic connection,

People and ideas

Equally entrenched in my heart.

When you speak

You create meaning to decipher,

A flowery grove

Suspended in the callus void.

Consciousness creates.

Every fantasy enriches thought.

Images and ideals

Are the angels of mortal Gods.

Artfully imperfect,

Our subtle cracks, Nature’s profundity.

Our deepest griefs

Akin to scribbles drawn with passion.

 

Souls exist in meaning exists in thought

Expressed in art to be interpreted imperfectly

By the senses of living things.

Read, write, listen, and think,

So even the damned find salvation.

 

Forests for Empty Spaces

Pleasure, satisfaction,

Common creature comforts,

Health and habitation;

Leave them with your home.

Nothing to distract you,

Nothing to build on,

Bound to wit and wilderness,

What do you become?

Sunlight burning, reddened raw.

Rocks cutting, scraping skin.

Sitting in the biting swarms.

Body aches in all its parts.

Brutality from the beautiful,

Faerie forests nearly sacred,

Hiding waterfalls and sunsets,

And myriads of stars.

Little to be done,

Even fewer things to say,

Letting go for silence

To graze on natural sounds.

Falling out,

Letting loose the inner void

And filling it somberly

With the only things around.

Over Control

You must behave.

Those emotions screaming to be gratified

Must be tamed,

And so you learn to self-control.

Radically closed,

Fear outweighing your need for expression.

Disfiguring yourself

In accordance with the principles of shame.

A pavlovian animal

Afraid to eat before it hears a bell.

Over-controlling,

You atrophy your capacity to love.

Trying to be yourself

Triggers your own self-loathing and disgust.

Connection is impossible,

So you’ll suffer to remain in isolation.

Once you know,

Once you recognize how detached you’ve become,

Your walls become flesh

And they won’t fall away without your blood.

Opening up,

Slowly, like unraveling a tender wound,

The glue and gauze

Still clinging tightly to your flesh.

Even then,

It groans and aches under pressure,

And you’ll shake

Knowing how frail you genuinely are.

Standing precariously,

You brace for the inevitable plunge.

Embracing uncertainty,

Choosing vulnerability over control.

When Shedding Skin

It becomes obvious

How much damage was done.

How much you were stained

From the effects of your surroundings.

Like the yellowing of smoke,

Pure white turning dim,

Recollections of abuses

In a dirge to your past.

Mistakes and misfortunes

Painted alike

On the ever-aging flesh

Wrinkling steadily to dust.

Wash it away,

Pull yourself out

And see who you were

With clearer eyes.

Let it fall off,

Feel it loosening

And setting you free

From cares long dead.

Shedding skin,

The ghost of past scars.

Rejuvenating

And flowing forth.

To Those About To Define

I am a fractal

And all life is shapeless energy.

It exists in motion,

In a flux, or not at all.

Emotions are like fire,

Easily felt but hard to grasp,

Constantly in motion,

Never simply happy or just sad.

We’re all non-linear,

Even acting like we’re whole,

Pretending space is flat

And that basic shapes exist.

Defining us in terms

Of euclidean simplicity

Is an insult to reality

And the complexity of our souls,

Our being, our essence,

By any other word

Is too broad a subject

For your dismissive unambiguity.

No pill or prayer,

No final solution,

No common sense parable

Or well-meaning lie

Can fill in this space,

Open to interpretation,

Of dimensions vast outweighing

Your shallow view of life.

 

 

 

 

Beneath Unseen Things

Under the willow roots

A skeleton lays, looking up,

Wondering what it means

That he cannot be known.

All the living things

Above the surface earth

Perceive their present moments

Unaware of what’s below.

An impaled heart

Over which the willow weeps,

And dusty bones

Snuggled firmly in the dirt.

Unbroken silence,

The tree’s buried shelter

For secrets of its regions

That no one could know.

Dirt for the dead,

Commotion for the living,

Hollowness to follow,

Vacancy of thought.

Lovers, ash to dust,

Marrow is to bark.

Love without a light

To illumine what they are.