Depressing, isn't it?
Since they seem to be the only things I can write lately, here's a few more poems.
I know, I hate it too.
Seeking: A Man of Intellectual Means
(Or “Where Have All the Potentials Gone?)
A case of self-destruction
The clues
Spontaneity
Frivolity
Sloth
Lack of reverence
Lack of self-control
Internalized issues
That fester and boil and break the skin
The Cable was a mistake
It snapped
And I fell
Left on the ground
With coils winding about
The Hope was a mistake
The expectation of it all
It was not so much that the world failed me
But that I sat
And waited on lightning
When the conditions did not warrant its appearance
Oh despair, despair
At this woman in red who has walked through my door
Trouble she brings with her
Clinging to her hem
The Petulant Child
Oh despair, despair
At this mysterious Hound
An option it brings
That I have yet to consider
The Unsettling Question
Alas, that nothing is as it seems
This Hidden Enemy
This Unseen force
This Drive behind it All
A tack
A nail
A spike
To drive me off my road
My path
My intended course
And yet
Mystery of mysteries
I can blame none but myself
Though I cannot see when I might have placed it
Like a man I once knew, dying of Insomnia
I have this secret life I have never known
Simply because I detest my own
There is a Manila Folder
Sitting on a desk
That is covered in dust
Because No One has ever used the chair
And in this Folder
Is the Mystery that no one can solve
And though they line up outside the door
They all fear to come in
The secretary will buzz and say they are here
But there is no one to speak to
Even as that no one waits
Just waits
For the Man of Courage
To Unravel
For it is needed
The Man of Tolerance
And he cannot be advertised
And he cannot be found
And so he will never come
The Mystery will remain
The Happiness was a mistake
For every time it comes
It leaves again
Taking more and more with it
And it can never come back as full as it went
And I am drained as I sit
And no longer
No more
Will tears come at my displacement
For I have wept all the emotions God had given me
And only sensation remains
Brushing against my skin
Pain
Irritation
The twinge of delight
And I sigh
For this world is worthy of it
And I wait
For there is nothing else to be done
And I watch the Hope
As it moves from one book to another
Chapter to Chapter
Monetary and Momentum
The Time
Both the Corner and the Far-Sighted
And I wait
For there is nothing else to do
And there is nothing left for me
But this Manila Folder
On the desk in front of me
A Suicide Leap, In a Shallow Pool
What kind of
Absolute
Utter
Moron
Does it take
To screw oneself so utterly
To fail so dramatically
That the last and final haven
Will throw you out
And bar the door against your return
What kind of chill
Must cut across your heart
Must bury you in ice
That you can’t even gather
The will to care
To feel a way
One or another
About it.
What am I waiting for
That I must bury so deep
Burrow so completely
That nothing can touch me here
But loneliness
Where I sit
And wallow
Thinking of nothing
What kind of
Fool
What kind of
Idiot
What kind of
Hopeless
Dejected
Desecrating wretch
Does it take
To do something
So
Unbearably
Stupid
That there is no turning back from it?
The Padre and the Pattern
Unfair
I suppose
To call him unmitigated
Or suggest
That he is without cause
The truth exists
That a cause exists
And oft times
I drive him to that end
But the depths
To which he dwells
Are beyond the span
Of necessity
There is a drip here
That remains consistent
And bears down
And wears down
And digs so deep it burns within my blood
To be sure
My view is clouded
By the rage I feel
By the volume of my hate
And the weight of the pain
That I have been left to bear
Alone
Because no one ever acknowledged
The simple fact that it was there
But this impression that I have
The weight of his hands around my throat
Cannot be pure imagination
For others there was
There are
Boundaries
But for me remains the sensation
Of simple oppressive suffocation
And so like Sisyphus
I persist in the inane
I persist in the useless reiteration of actions that will never be completed
And so like Icarus
I seek heights beyond my means
I seek depths beyond my true character
And so like every American child
I crave a reaction that will never come
I crave an emotion that will never be shared
I crave an understanding that will never be reached
I strive for a night where I can think of it without the pain
And where I can share a room without the paranoia of the stern, solid rebuke
I pray for a world where I can break away from my model
A world where I will not become my model
And I realize
Now
At this moment
Why I would rather be alone
Than risk this wretched repetition
Why I would shove all and every away
Because I am so disgusted by their capabilities
And my own dark possibilities
I know, I hate it too.
Seeking: A Man of Intellectual Means
(Or “Where Have All the Potentials Gone?)
A case of self-destruction
The clues
Spontaneity
Frivolity
Sloth
Lack of reverence
Lack of self-control
Internalized issues
That fester and boil and break the skin
The Cable was a mistake
It snapped
And I fell
Left on the ground
With coils winding about
The Hope was a mistake
The expectation of it all
It was not so much that the world failed me
But that I sat
And waited on lightning
When the conditions did not warrant its appearance
Oh despair, despair
At this woman in red who has walked through my door
Trouble she brings with her
Clinging to her hem
The Petulant Child
Oh despair, despair
At this mysterious Hound
An option it brings
That I have yet to consider
The Unsettling Question
Alas, that nothing is as it seems
This Hidden Enemy
This Unseen force
This Drive behind it All
A tack
A nail
A spike
To drive me off my road
My path
My intended course
And yet
Mystery of mysteries
I can blame none but myself
Though I cannot see when I might have placed it
Like a man I once knew, dying of Insomnia
I have this secret life I have never known
Simply because I detest my own
There is a Manila Folder
Sitting on a desk
That is covered in dust
Because No One has ever used the chair
And in this Folder
Is the Mystery that no one can solve
And though they line up outside the door
They all fear to come in
The secretary will buzz and say they are here
But there is no one to speak to
Even as that no one waits
Just waits
For the Man of Courage
To Unravel
For it is needed
The Man of Tolerance
And he cannot be advertised
And he cannot be found
And so he will never come
The Mystery will remain
The Happiness was a mistake
For every time it comes
It leaves again
Taking more and more with it
And it can never come back as full as it went
And I am drained as I sit
And no longer
No more
Will tears come at my displacement
For I have wept all the emotions God had given me
And only sensation remains
Brushing against my skin
Pain
Irritation
The twinge of delight
And I sigh
For this world is worthy of it
And I wait
For there is nothing else to be done
And I watch the Hope
As it moves from one book to another
Chapter to Chapter
Monetary and Momentum
The Time
Both the Corner and the Far-Sighted
And I wait
For there is nothing else to do
And there is nothing left for me
But this Manila Folder
On the desk in front of me
A Suicide Leap, In a Shallow Pool
What kind of
Absolute
Utter
Moron
Does it take
To screw oneself so utterly
To fail so dramatically
That the last and final haven
Will throw you out
And bar the door against your return
What kind of chill
Must cut across your heart
Must bury you in ice
That you can’t even gather
The will to care
To feel a way
One or another
About it.
What am I waiting for
That I must bury so deep
Burrow so completely
That nothing can touch me here
But loneliness
Where I sit
And wallow
Thinking of nothing
What kind of
Fool
What kind of
Idiot
What kind of
Hopeless
Dejected
Desecrating wretch
Does it take
To do something
So
Unbearably
Stupid
That there is no turning back from it?
The Padre and the Pattern
Unfair
I suppose
To call him unmitigated
Or suggest
That he is without cause
The truth exists
That a cause exists
And oft times
I drive him to that end
But the depths
To which he dwells
Are beyond the span
Of necessity
There is a drip here
That remains consistent
And bears down
And wears down
And digs so deep it burns within my blood
To be sure
My view is clouded
By the rage I feel
By the volume of my hate
And the weight of the pain
That I have been left to bear
Alone
Because no one ever acknowledged
The simple fact that it was there
But this impression that I have
The weight of his hands around my throat
Cannot be pure imagination
For others there was
There are
Boundaries
But for me remains the sensation
Of simple oppressive suffocation
And so like Sisyphus
I persist in the inane
I persist in the useless reiteration of actions that will never be completed
And so like Icarus
I seek heights beyond my means
I seek depths beyond my true character
And so like every American child
I crave a reaction that will never come
I crave an emotion that will never be shared
I crave an understanding that will never be reached
I strive for a night where I can think of it without the pain
And where I can share a room without the paranoia of the stern, solid rebuke
I pray for a world where I can break away from my model
A world where I will not become my model
And I realize
Now
At this moment
Why I would rather be alone
Than risk this wretched repetition
Why I would shove all and every away
Because I am so disgusted by their capabilities
And my own dark possibilities
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