There once was a boy who hated himself
for he was afraid of punishment, afraid of failure
so he looked to the world for happiness and joy
and only found short-lived self-deprecating jokes
There once was a boy who thought he was happy
but every day when he came home
tired of his happy clownish facade
he sat down in his chair and thought
as both the jester and the king
in his own court of delusion
There once was a man who knew what went wrong
who hated those who made him go oh so wrong
but inside, deep down, the same man that knew
also knew it was unfair to hate those who wronged him
so the boy kept it inside, the smoldering rage
for he was not a man yet, not in body nor in mind
There once was a boy who convinced himself
that he was happy enough to live in the moment
nevermind the man in his head who told him
about all the things he did wrong, or the wrongs done to him
he was content to live in the moment with the joy of friendship
until that friendship was shattered in every single way
There was once a boy who loved those who wronged him
for he was full of that childish love to give to those undeserving
until the young man burst out with the greatest anger
to speak his mind and wield his fist in the most primal way
for those who had wronged him had aged too much to wrong again
and it was now his turn to wrong them, and assert his own power
but those who had wronged him had aged too much to wrong again
and so the child stopped him, for the child was naive,
and the child still loved all.
There is now only a child who wallows in anger and doubt
about who he is, why he is, and what he should do
who had all the love to give others but found none at all from them
and can no longer love for the sake of love
but only for the hope that someone will love him back
There is now only a man who is thoroughly dissappointed
at the weakness of the child and the perpetuation of failure
who explained how to win as the child chose to lose
for he was only a child who had never felt love
and naively gave away his soul along with his love
and these two continue to bicker and fight
about who was right and who was wrong
and as always only time will tell
only after it is already too late
The Day of Reckoning comes and goes.
I think I am free. I act as if I am free.
You take that freedom away from me.
You say it is for my own good.
I see how much you love me.
But this is not the right way.
You have pushed me my whole life.
Everything I am is thanks to you.
All the glory. And all the pain.
The same boiling water that hardens the potato will soften the egg.
The same heat that purifies the iron also makes it soft.
The same hammer that strikes the nail will cave in my head.
Just one more year, you say. Just one more year until the moment.
Just one more year until I can enjoy my own existence.
Just one more fucking year.
That moment comes and goes and it moves ever further back.
You move the Rubicon South, and you move it further South.
The march never ends. We must push to the Rubicon.
It is always the critical moment. Each battle is the deciding fight.
Each time you promise me that the next fight will be the last.
And each time I believe you.
You were pushing me when I was a child.
You still push me as an adult.
I'm sure you will still push me as an old man.
Pushing me right into that open coffin as you tell me my legs aren't good enough.
Here's the test I scored well on.
Here's the competition I won an award in.
Is it enough for you? Will I be allowed happiness?
Can I talk to human beings again and pretend I am one of them?
The past year, no, two years, no, five, no -
The past over-a-decade has been nothing but more
so much more that whenever someone says "burnout is bad!"
I think inside, "I lived it; I breathed it; I became it; sounds like you just have a skill issue."
And I'm a terrible person for thinking that. If it hurt for me, it'll hurt for them.
But god damn if I have something else I'm proud of taken away from me again.
I come back with a 95. You ask, "why isn't it 96? 97? 100?" Or maybe you don't care. Just see that it's an 'A' and forget it by tomorrow.
I come back saying I did well. You ask, "and how exactly? What did you do? What did everyone else think?"
And I tell you because I'm a good child and I'm still that naive pushover who thinks the world is good and you are still family
And inside I pack up another bottle of anger and disappointment of various kinds of both you and myself.
And in the end I've had enough. You taught me how to shorten my fuse, and I've tried to make it last a little longer but you burn so hot.
I tell you to shut up and wait for the results. And inside I think but don't say: "You fucking asshole. Piece of shit that can't bother to be proud of their own child for fucking once."
So tired of your shit. So tired of being a good person to you because you're just an ass and you can't change that.
So tired of pushing forwards all the time. So tired of being pushed forwards all the time. Can't do it myself like a real human being.
So tired of being this mess who can't pull themselves together like a normal person. So tired of procrastinating and crying and sitting here wallowing in the exact same cesspool of angst.
So tired of doing everything wrong and right and being the perfect idiot child and pushing forwards and wading back and the whole fucking thing.
I'm just so, so fucking tired.
How much of me is the real me
and how much is what you put in there?
How much of me is what I really really want
and how much is what you've told me to want?
What part of me is the real, genuine article
and what part is the seeds you've planted?
What part of me is my blood, sweat, and tears
and what part is the loan you gave to a grave with my name on it?
Which notes in my melody come from my own mind and thought
and which notes are copied from a song I already forgot?
Which notes in my melody are beautiful, strong, soft, and cheery
and which notes are the discord you've sown?
What part of me is the part gives and seeks love?
and what part is the one that hates all it sees?
What part of me is the part that I should keep?
and what part should I leave behind?
How much of me is the real me?
and how much is your god-damned meddling?
I am in the dark
The rain pounds on the windows
My eyes snap open
Time is running out
I can't feel the urgency
What's in the future?
I look but don't see
I understand but can't feel
I know but can't act.
I have one last chance.
I should prepare - the rain stops -
I wasted my time.
I am really going to go crazy some day,
I am going to go fucking insane.
It feels like the whole world is against me,
when I know it is not in truth,
but I can't let go of truth nor lie and it all blends together.
What do I want? What the fuck do I even want?
Is it money? Convenience? Freedom? Ability?
Will I come to value material more than I value people?
Will I come to value society more than I value its parts?
Will I erase "myself" in search of a "successful" future?
What am I? What can I be?
Am I able to be more than the sum of my history?
More than trauma, coping, addiction, fear, anger, sadness?
Do I even want to be more? Will I lose "myself" in the process?
Am I even allowed to change?
I reach for the bright future
and I fall just one inch short
It is good enough. I have done enough.
But it is all unraveling back again.
I changed my direction.
I chose the better path.
I worked towards truly living.
So why is it falling back apart?
I convinced myself I could be happy.
I convinced myself I was allowed to be happy.
I convinced myself it would be better to be happy.
So why do I feel like I deserve to suffer?
Do I have anything to say for myself?
Do I have some sort of penance to offer?
Do I regret my choice, or only that I failed?
Should I regret my existence, too?
was the pie in the sky just another fucking lie?
God will weep
for the souls of the damned
and the sins of the holy
when I shove my fist through his chest
God will weep
for the poor and suffering
and the mistakes of the greats
when I kick his corpse off the cliff
God will weep
for the sins he has committed
and the suffering of the good
when I shove my foot through his skull
God will weep
for the wrongs he has done to me
and the defects he made me with
when I throw his ashes into the wastewater collection plant
God will weep
because when I find his house
and break in the door
he fucking better cry.
There was a young man from Peru
Whose limericks stopped at line two
HANG IN THERE BABY!! instagram | bluesky | patreon
‼️prints here
made in the blind spot of god
a husk of a man without a soul
what is being alive and being dead
it is all the same regardless
I reach for the pie in the sky
as the world turns pale grey
there is nothing left for me here
so I will seek better lands
but I am trapped, held back
by the same chains of my own making
because I thought the sky was evil
for it was not the same grey as the rest
Then I saw them, the people in the sky
So far above, coming down with the helping hand
Even though there's really not much to pull, eh?
Just the sack of flesh and the animal shoved in there
And so it doesn't want to be pulled
To leave the safety, the dullness, the monotony
Why should it? It'd probably just get worse if it changed
and it didn't deserve to be helped by those it shunned
and regardless, the grapes were probably sour anyways.