Ad Absurdum & Beyond

Musing #13

Apart of me loves the scraps, I’ve held onto from my past. My meager creations, are everything I’d hoped they’d be. They speak with the voice, that flows like honey from my confident, and witty alter ego. Conveying the ideas I like to entertain are worthy of every award. 

But another part of me cringes at the faux pas and arrogance. The obvious errors, and novice methods, are enough to force a ashamed cry from me. Should I be confronted with the scraps face to face…should they see the light of day, I’d likely shudder, mortified. For I know well the ridiculous amount of loftiness and melodrama they bare.  

But, secretly, when it is just me, reveling in nostalgia, I smile all the same. Because beneath the layer of sloppiness and poor quality is something good. Something I can cut out, shine and polish. A voice that is mine, and rings uninhibited and true.

"Drowning in the depths of the dark eyes in the mirror.
Who is that, that i’m looking at again?"

Humanness we can’t escape.

There’s a prayer here,
In the words that they laid down.
There’s a last request,
Echoeing in these multitude of notes.

It’s here.
That the truths that escaped,
the hiding places of my soul reside.

We sing the same damn songs,
And repeat the sounds
That haunt us through the decades,
As we fall asleep,
Because it’s the humanness
We can’t escape.

Agony

This loathing is agony.

It is a visceral pain that radiates from my bones, 
Into every part of my body.
I want to destroy.
You.
Tthe room,
The house,
This whole fucking world.
Me.

I want to rip the skin from my arms,
Dig out the marrow from my bones,
Just to get this to stop.


This pain!
I want to punch until, my knuckles bleed.
Scratch until the blood has no choice
But to ooze to the surface, and release
Whatever poison it contains.
I want to break a bone
If only
so the pain will focus
And I can learn how to breathe again
So that it becomes so intense
I can think
Or feel
Or breathe.
So that the screams rip they’re way out of my throat
And the tears flood past the dams of my eyelids.
I want to lose my vision,
My sound,
My mind,
my sense of time.

I want to break.
If only so I don’t have to sit here,
In this slow constant agony.
If only so I don’t have to taste the bile
In my throat every minute of the day.
If only so my head will cease to pound
And feel sick at this hatred.
If only so the toxic whispers that
Play on repeat in my ears
will cease to be.

This loathing is agony.
And the only person to break is me

"They call it liquid courage.
Courage tastes fouler than I imagined.
But if it gets me through tonight, than foulness can rule my tongue for life."

Monkeys

We are your monkeys.
Show us our cages,
And the buttons we push.
Give us the rhythm of humdrum monotony.
We only dream of Blissful Enslavement.
Let us smile and laugh at our foolishness.
We will dance for you.
We will sing to the tune for you.
Let us tap at the keys for you,

We are your monkeys,
Don’t make us be more,
Don’t let us see more,
We are too frightened to move past the patterns.
Don’t make us think of our own autonomy.

We are your monkeys
Greatness is not for us
The cost is just too much
Give us our sedatives
We’ll forsake humanity.

Questions for the New.

Now as the newly born, sublime and entirely alien creature lay in the wake of its birth from the ashes of its mean predecessor. Gasping, raw, and still covered in the gooey residue of its creation, it was brought face to face with the question all living creatures must face. 'What now…?'

And luckily for this freshly created creature, the answer to this particular question in this particular moment was amiably present and simple. 'Now you grow.'

"Tell your truths like your lies, and your lies like your truths, and no one will believe the latter nor doubt the former because the best lies, look a lot like the truth."

I Bought my Dreams in a Dollar Store.

I bought my dreams in a dollar store.
I paid ninety nine cents for something to live for.
I looked carefully at every item on the shelves, took my time choosing what would make waking up worthwhile. Then I laid them all out on the counter and watched the cost rung up. When the time came to pay, I poured out my pennies, and cut my fingers on each one. One by one, the red pennies were accepted, slid off the counter and collected. When the dreams were finally mine, they felt cold in my hands, but I thanked the cashier all the same, and held it close as my fingers dripped down my arms.
This was all I needed, it would making breathing mean something.
It was one thing, I hoped I would not regret.
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