Ode To Dystopia

Idealism and romance raised me to care,

But authority raised me to be compliant and indifferent.

What forces us to conform and behave

Breaks our hearts and deadens our empathetic sentiments.

When you choose to live for love,

You’re at odds with all those who will take whatever you can give.

The Ideas you cherish like equality and justice

Only matter to them as weapons to be selectively implemented.

We take an unequal share of the world’s pain.

You can carry it as your own or you can choose to inflict it.

But the totality of human suffering

Rarely moves individuals as much as all the pursuit of satisfaction.

To us, who’re ruled by those who don’t love one another,

You’re more an idea or a number than anything like what we’d call “a life.”

You can’t lie when you’re reduced to an integer,

But you can’t assert yourself as anything worth cherishing either.

 

 

Love Like Introspection

Could I ever be loved as completely

As the honesty of your sincerest introspection?

 

Mortality and eternity,

Subjects so situated in time

That occupy my emptiness

The way I wish I was admired.

 

Could I fill your mind

And terrify your sense of being

In such a way as to change

The reality of your inner quiet?

 

People are like night skies,

Shifting their position and meaning,

So when you gaze at me

I hope you think of what you’re not seeing.

 

We are mysterious and complicated things,

Too important for casual recognition,

And if I’m ever to be loved again

It must be worth our fullest attention.

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Dreaming Splendor

I can’t afford bed sheets or makeup.

Beautified dreams, somehow, still come easily.

Even in poverty, the luxury of abstraction

Soothes me daily, in depression or inspiration.

Streetlights on snowy nights

Hold more potential than money or connections.

Shadows in the urban landscape,

More real than set ideals or purchased thrills.

Somewhere is an inevitability

Waiting to be dreamed into vibrant shapes.

Magenta rain against black skies,

Sleeping bodies forgetting their encroaching doom.

I can’t afford bed sheets or makeup,

But in my mind, I repose against splendid fashionings.

The faintest glimmer of peace and satisfaction

Awakes, and gives me space to keep imagining.

Wolf Pup Dreams

Five wolf pups sleeping soundly,

Dreaming fantasies to dull their pains.

Every morning they woke to play

With new defenses in their brains.

They dreamed of screamed beratement,

Careless running through the trees,

Getting lost in friendless spaces,

Or simply flying away, free.

Fears and desires breed

The strangest images in wolf pup heads,

The seeds of future habits

They’ll follow, fight, and feed.

Meantime, another day for playing

Running on in spite of what they’ve seen.

 

Soul Shaper

If I could manipulate my own soul

I would become so many other things;

A character in my favorite books,

A God of my imagined mythos,

An active observer of human history,

An Angel of guidance and/or death,

A spirit floating through endless space,

A designer of perpetual dramas,

A stranger in the realm of dreams,

A composer of symphonies of light,

A voyager through heaven and hell,

A state of being beyond space and time,

An immortal Goddess ruling empires,

And a mortal shell that made peace with death.

If I could manipulate the reality of my existence,

Would the meaning of anything really change?

 

 

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.