Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics

“The wind is howling, turning raindrops into bristling needles on my arms, and in that familiar pain I can almost remember where the scars all started.”

You don’t have to be afraid,

My sweet primrose,

Of the coming storm.

The clouds are rolling in,

And in that gray wave

The Lions of the sky reign.

Their manes, majestic ash,

With roars born

From a clash of light

Fighting to find solid ground.

Look past the lightning,

And listen for the moments

Between the Thunder;

A storm is nothing more

Than a lonely sky

Searching for a home.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I don’t know why I bother.

It’s 85 degrees outside, and the air in this old office isn’t what you’d call “top notch”, so my shirt is sticking to my chair, and my shirt sleeve is stained with forehead sweat. I walked in, sat down, and the heat made me sick within minutes. I’ve been up to empty my guts 3 times since 8AM, and it’s not even lunchtime yet. To make matters worse, the bathroom is right behind our offices most populated set of cubicles, so whenever I must go, everybody sees me get up, walk over to the bathroom, disappear for 10 minutes, only to return looking like I just finished a few rounds in the ring. Repeat this 3-6 times daily, and I’m sure everybody is disgusted by me. I wash my hands, and come in wearing decent enough clothes, and shower and have deodorant and brush my teeth, etc. etc. However, all of that is thrown out the window the second you notice the fat little Asian of the office seems to be taking enough shits for everyone on the payroll. At first, people will chalk it up to being lazy, thinking I must be wasting time on my phone, texting friends, browsing social media, playing Pokémon Go like a true American. That line of thinking evaporates quickly the second somebody talks to me though, as it becomes painfully obvious just how socially inept I really am. My co-workers quickly come to the conclusion that I’m not wasting my time on my phone in there, because it’s impossible that I could be holding a conversation with another human being, even if it was just a Facebook post or a stupid tweet. No, this…person? Yeah, I guess I’d still be considered a person. Anyway, the barely person that I am is either shitting their brains out (true), or using alone time in the stall to cry where nobody can see, giving her the strength to get back out there for at least 45 minutes before her next mental breakdown (also true). What can I say, I’m a multitasker? Between the heat, diarrhea and a lifetime of self-loathing, my body can shift from raging volcano to bottomless Antarctic pit in a matter of milliseconds.

At the beginning of the Summer, my office hired interns. We hired young, attractive, high school interns. They all sit together, and they all do the same thing (nothing, because what high school junior knows enough about anything to be able to offer any help to anybody?). I sound mean because I’m bitter. Honestly, they are nice kids. They got here 2 weeks ago, and they try. I’ve shown 2 of them a few tricks with Microsoft Excel, and traded 1 of them 4 quarters for a ripped dollar bill that our vending machine wouldn’t take. Aside from those 2 moments, and introductions when they all started, I haven’t spoken a word to these kids. And I’m not just saying that, I’ve counted, because that’s what I do. I am so self-conscience about everything that is me, that I know exactly how many times I’ve spoken to everybody in my office. Aside from my boss, that number doesn’t exceed 2 digits for anybody. It’s all my fault as well. When I started, people tried talking to me, made attempts to help me “fit in”, but within the course of 1 or 2 conversations they realized the folly of their ways, and thus my self-induced work isolation cycle began anew. Back to the interns; they aren’t bad, and I don’t think they want to hurt my feelings, but they are still in high school, and what high schooler could resist making fun of such an easy target? They weren’t being loud or spreading rumors around the office. They weren’t even being pointed about it; I probably only noticed because I’m special tuned to pick up any and all negative things said about me, along with being able to filter anything positive into something neutral or negative. So, these high school kids see me coming out of the bathroom for the 4th time today. It’s 2:14PM, and I haven’t finished any of my work for the day, and my nose is all runny and gross and I know I’m sniffling so much it must be disgusting to have to hear, and I barely catch it, and I could just ignore it, but it’s me, so that’s not actually an option. My ears are advanced radars, and what they pick up…it’s really just laughter, right? It doesn’t have to be about me, right? But I can’t block out the words. I want to block out the words, but I can’t. It’s not even that mean, really. I already know my sniffling is gross, so the suggestion that I learn how to use a tissue is actually just good life advice. My body is a science experiment gone horribly wrong, so pointing out that so many trips to the bathroom in a day means I must really eat some terrible shit at home is 100% accurate. And yes, my hair is rather ugly when I wear it short. And yes, it was much better last week when my long hair covered my gigantic ears. And of course, it should go without saying, but they say it all the same! I must live alone, because who could put up with my painful, disgusting, awkward ass! They might be kids, but they have eyes that work just fine, and they aren’t afraid to call it like they see it. And like I said, they didn’t say this at a volume where they knew I could hear it. And what they did say was actually rather tame versus what I’m used to from high school kids. But my broken ass body reacts before I can stop it. My empty stomach drops down to my knees, and I become aware of how much oxygen I’m wasting on my fast breathing. My arms start to shake a little, then a lot, and then I have to stop typing or writing, and I do my best to keep my these fists from punching myself silly. I feel my body collapsing in on itself in an attempt to shrink the target that is me, but I’m unable to forget my own mass, and I can’t stop starring at the rolls on my stomach as my head flirts with banging into my desk. But the worst of it is that slow creeping chill. It’s born from my chest, and it eats through my veins, swallowing blood and shitting out reminders of every little fucking thing I hate about myself. The sensation creeps through my arms, and all of my scars start screaming in unison, and I’m embarrassed! I’m so fucking embarrassed! I’m so sure that everybody can see them, even though I put so much effort into hiding them! Even though I always remember to wear long sleeves everywhere I do! Even though I’ve tried every scar cream known to man to get them to fade! But what good will hiding, or covering, or even erasing them do, when I keep adding to my collection! And just as that realization leaves me feeling naked, the cold flushes through my back and legs and head, and I shiver like I’m building a snowman in my birthday suit, and I have to stop, I have to find some way to stop, just stop me, just stop everything that is me. I need to grab the scissors in my desk, bang it into the wall, and throw myself head first into those blades. I need to throw my chair through the window at the end of the hallway and follow it down, straight into the parking lot pavement. I need to run back into the factory, find the largest, most dangerous looking piece of equipment, and do whatever it takes to get it to kill me. Fucking kill me. I fucking need to die, right fucking now. God, I can’t take this anymore, not for another second, I can’t handle it. I can’t handle life, I never wanted to live, I never wanted to be this fucking thing that I am. Please, I just need to die. I want to die. Kill me. Fucking let me die…please…

The overwhelming urge to commit suicide fades along with the chills, but only to a tolerable level, and only to a level I would describe as tolerable. It’s roughly 2-4 minutes of me at my desk, hoping nobody walks by to see me silently freaking out. After 5 minutes, I’m calm enough to be my normal, awful self. Of course, I’m just repressing my feelings, so I already know when I get home shits gonna hit the fan. But I’m used to this. It used to be a once in a while sort of deal. Then it grew into a monthly deal. And from monthly to weekly, and weekly to daily. Yes, this is an everyday thing. Honestly I’m happy if it only happens once a day. I’ve literally run out of fresh skin to scar, so I’m overlapping, creating patchworks to replace those solid, parallel lines. I’ve run out of skin, and patience, and any sense of self-love…no, I’ve just ran out of any sort of love at all…

I always told myself that a life without love isn’t a life worth living. I’m finding out that’s 100% not true. My life wasn’t worth living long before I ran out of love. Now that I’m out of love, I’ve just become a ghost. I want to die, but I can’t kill myself. I want to kill myself, but I’m afraid to die. I thought that if I had nothing left to love, I wouldn’t care if I died. Turns out, if you have no more love, you have nothing left to fight away the fear. And I’ve been out of love long enough to be neck high in fear…and I keep hoping that the fear will keep growing, eventually letting me drown. But I know fear…it won’t ever let me die…it will keep me on the brink, keep me begging, but it won’t let go…

I hate this…but it’s all my doing…I destroyed all of my love, instead feeding all of my fears. This is what I am now; fear is all I have.

But…

If there is a God, then please…

Please, God…kill me.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I.

There are so many wonderful people out in the world that I know things will only get better from here on out. I’ll do my part, and get out of the way of progress. Thank you all so much, and good luck.

I don’t like many things about myself. Actually, I hate everything about myself, except for my writing. As my self-loathing has reached critical mass over the past 5 years the only thing keeping me grounded was being able to get my feelings out on paper. I think my writing is very dark, but it’s true of who I am.

Maybe that’s why it sucks that the first time I let my Mom read a piece of my poetry she hated it.

I had my journal out while visiting my parents over the weekend, and my Mom noticed and wanted to know what I was doing. I told her I was writing, and she got really excited. You see, when I was in elementary school I used to write poems. I wrote sappy, shitty poems. The type of poems where they give you a prompt, and a structure, and you fill in the blanks with words. My Mom and Dad loved those poems, but those poems straight up fucking sucked. They were the billshit writing of a 10 year old kid. I wrote those poems in class because it was for a grade, not for myself. Those poems didn’t reflect a single piece of how I thought of myself.

So when my Mom read my poems and didn’t react, I knew I was in for some shit. She handed my journal back to me and faked a smile. I thought she’d throw some fake ass compliments my way and leave me be, but I was wrong. She didn’t even pretend to like what I wrote. She told me she preferred my earlier poems, because they sounded so much happier. I said I don’t remember any of those poems, because none of them ever reflected how I felt. She kept that fake smile plastered on her face, told me she thinks I’d feel better if I tried writing something that sounded happier, and than left.

I have to admit, I didn’t expect that. I never share my writing with those around me, because I never knew how they’d react, and I’m afraid of being told my writing sucks. I write under a fake name that holds meaning to only me, and I post on a blog. But I realize now the reason I never shared my work is because, deep down, I’ve always known it was shit. Because this writing, it’s 100% me. It’s honest and raw. I never sugarcoat a damn thing. I tell it exactly like it is.

But I’m an idiot. If the writing is 100% me, than of course it’s going to be shit! I’m a fucking piece of shit, so why wouldn’t writing about who I am give off that same vibe? I’m a fucking loser. I have good reason to hate who I am. So anything I do will reflect that. It shows in how fucking fat I am. It shows in how fucking lazy I am. It shows in how dumb, how inferior, how ignorant I am. And it shows in how shitty my writing is.

I had 1 escape, 1 thing tying me down. So long as I had my words, I could pretend I was confessing my sins, and I could trick myself into thinking I deserve to live. I’m wrong about that. These words only show how low and pathetic I am. These words reveal to the world that I deserve to suffer. These words are 100% me, and that means they have no chance to ever be considered anything other than disgusting.

I’ve lied to myself long enough. I keep on putting of the ending, but no more. No more arbitrary dates or goals. No more giving myself days or months or years to fix it. No more setting a timeframe to get things in order before I go. It’s high time I shut the fuck up and just do it.

Everything I write is 100% me. As such, every word I have ever written is complete shit. I’m not waiting for the New Year. I’m not giving myself a silly goal, like being below a certain weight by my birthday, or having completed some work/life goal within the next month. No more excuses. I have no value to add to the world. My life actually sucks away from the potential of everybody around me. I thought I was a 0 sum person, getting by on the knowledge that at least I wasn’t creating a negative impact on the world.

But I am.

And it needs to end.

I need to end.

And I’m going to end.

Thank you, everybody, for putting up with me. I know the future is bright for this world, because there are so many kind and wonderful people out there. And I won’t get in the way of your progress anymore.

Thank you, and goodbye.

Posted in Music Mondays, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

Music Mondays: Tash Sultana

It’s been quite a while since I’ve posted a music suggestion, so to kick things back up I’m starting with one of my favorite musicians to watch live. Tash Sultana, there is nothing I can say that can properly sum up the life, the energy, the passion you put into your music. This Tiny Desk Concert is especially special, with the small desk making her already larger than life act become a literal mountain of sound. In particular, her track “Notion” is some of the greatest noise I’ve ever had the pleasure of pumping into my ears.

Enjoy!

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“The scales are tipped in my favor, but I’m too afraid to make a bet…27 years, and I’m still unable to bet on me…”

They say the sky wasn’t always gray;

There used to be a white light,

A star close enough to touch,

But we wasted it’s warmth.

 

We let that fire burn the air,

Tinge our shoulders bronze,

Feed our flower petals

And guide us towards tomorrow.

 

It shared everything, expecting nothing.

So what did we do?

We took those flames to light matches,

And the matches to ignite black powders,

Delivering hot lead through bodies

Of everyone we’ve ever held dear.

 

We got close enough to the fire

To light our cigarettes,

And spread the ash over gravestones;

A flicker in the moment,

And everything is turned gray.

We burned it all down,

And left our dreams as dust.

 

Where has the Sun in the sky gone?

The place where dead things go;

Towards the heavens drenched gray,

Choking the entire way.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

The difference between a hope and a wish

I hope for things that have yet to come, and I wish I could go back and change everything. I’m nothing but a mess of what ifs, weighed down by a mountain of could have beens, and underneath it all is nothing but an ugly husk of questionable, molting moralities. Hoping is bullshit. It’s what those who lack the will to act get high on so they can ignore their own pathetic reflections. Wishing is kiddy garbage. It’s for idiots who can only make mistakes and never have the guts to break the cycle. Hope is for stupid people who think only of tomorrow, while wishing is for morons who can’t stop thinking of yesterday. I’m not sure which is worse, so I might as well fucking overdose on both.

 

“I hope that I can make up for everything, before my time is up.”

~I wish I wasn’t so fucking useless. ~

“I hope I don’t die without having accomplished anything at all.”

~I wish I wasn’t afraid of an afterlife. ~

“I hope that I’m gone before I have a chance to hurt anybody else.”

~I wish I hadn’t thrown those bullets out of the car window before I got home from work that day. ~

“I hope that when this year ends, it’s really the end.”

~I wish I had found the courage to take a few more pills, just enough to get some silence. ~

“I hope it stays warm through October; I don’t want to be buried in the ground when it’s cold.”

~I wish I had cut myself deep enough to bleed out. ~

“I hope I can do this before August; I don’t want to ruin my Sisters birthday.”

~I wish I could have died before wasting so much money on college. ~

“I hope that, when the Spring finally melts this snow, it can also melt my cowardice and I’ll be able to pull the trigger.”

~I wish I had killed myself before my first high school crush. ~

“I hope that I crash this car into a ditch and freeze to death; I fucking deserve to suffer quietly and alone before I die.”

~I wish a baseball would have hit me in the head during little league, so I wouldn’t have to live wishing I had the strength to hit myself hard enough to fucking die. ~

“I hope my death will somehow make up for all the shit I’ve caused throughout my life.”

~I wish I had jumped further from the pier, just far enough so my Dad couldn’t have jumped in and saved me, just far enough so that I would have suffered and drowned like the idiot 6 year old I was deserved. ~

“I hope that as this year begins, I don’t let it begin.”

~I wish I had never been born. ~

 

Wow, it’s truly amazing how pathetic I am. Hoping for an end while wishing that end had already come to pass, what a fucking piece of shit, what a truly disgusting, terrible, ugly creature I am. Fuck me. Seriously, just…I can’t even comprehend how fucking awful I am. Please, stop hoping and stop wishing and just pull the fucking trigger.

Just fucking die.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I’ve stretched out my soul to widen my shadow, the only part of me that seems to understand how much of a fool God must be for creating this bullshit.

The Summer flickers into the year with lingering regrets;

A medley of melted marshmallows and perfume laced bug sprays.

It’s not a storm like the Spring, raging in, forcing growth and change, no.

Summer stumbles with no direction, as if lost in all this sunlight,

As if the added hours of daytime and sweltering drafts have incited a lethargy

That takes a provenance in refuse cartilage of swollen anatomies.