How Much Of Me Is The Real Me

God Will Weep

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.

This Bottled-Up Rage

Hey, dad. You've given me a lot over the years. You've given me everything I have. You've pushed me to everything I did well.

You've also given me a lot of rage. You've given me a lot to hate about. You've given me a lot of trauma.

There's a lot that I want to say here but I can't. Because that would be stupid. Of course it would.

And so I'm stuck now with this mass of boiling rage and hatred and all of it

This fucking stupid idiotic terrible legacy you've passed down

Just hate hate hate nothing but hate just hate

Rage against everyone and everything

But don't actually say it out loud

Just keep it all tucked away

Like a shelf with

ten thousand

big bottles

of rage

tucked

safely

away

.

As I put my elbow on the table and the hand under my mastoid bone and grab at my short hair I stop and think

wow okay, that felt strangely feminine why did I do that

There was a young man from Peru

Whose limericks stopped at line two

Tell Me What You Want

Am I who you want me to be?

Am I who you need?

Am I who you want to share food with?

Am I who you like?

Is this effort sufficient?

Should I put in more?

Is this emotion the correct one?

Should I use another?

Are these words the right ones?

Should I say a little less?

Are these motions the best ones?

Should I move a little less?

Tell me what you want me to be.

Caring? Angry? Happy? Sad?

Tell me what you need me to be.

Supportive? Detached? Blunt? Soft?

Please, just tell me what you want.

I live only to serve.

The Temptation of Silence

Oh, how tempting that mistress is,

to be shut away and not a bother to nobody,

To make absolutely no-one the sadder

by reciting the same pains that ailed them.

Oh, how tempting that emptiness is,

to be quiet and subdued and unnoticed,

To make absolutely nothing go worse than it already has

by moving again to the great god of failure.

Oh, how tempting that nothingness is,

to be perfect and nonexistent and unbothered,

To make absolutely everything nothing, and nothing everything

by emptying the whole world of its contents.

Oh, how tempting that silence is,

to destroy my self in mine own vainglory.

A Broken Vase

This vase is broken.

It is chipped, cracked, and damaged.

It is broken like a million other vases.

Yes, it is broken.

Hurt like a million others, indeed.

Each one uniquely hurt, each one uniquely changed.

This broken vase is worthless.

It is broken. It serves no purpose.

It would be better to throw it away.

No, it can heal.

And when it is healed, it will be unique.

It will be a simple vase no longer.

The broken vase will stay broken.

It will never be fixed to mint condition.

It must be thrown away.

Yes, the damage will stay.

But it will be fixed to be different.

It will be unique and special and beautiful.

This is a broken vase. We must throw it away.

I am beginning to believe that the vase is not the problem here.

this is not effective.

only posts that succeed get attention, and are then reblogged by other people.

This creates the appearance of an unbroken chain of people succeeding.

In other words: this is a form of selection bias, specifically survivorship bias.

Impostor

I, a false pretender to the throne

command thee thus: stay away

from me, from my filth, from the

degeneracy of my very being.

There is nothing good here.

No beauty to redeem. No

great ambition or fame

to be found in this husk.

Do not argue. You may not

tell me about how great I already am.

I fear you may convince me. It feeds

the narcissism, the complacency.

I will not be great. I will not be good.

Do not place your hopes upon me.

I merely take and take and take what's not mine

so that I can pretend I had a part in creation.

Go. Cast my chains off thee.

Be free. Be happy. Be real.

I will hold myself back and watch

with a jealous, happy smile.

Nothing Left

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.