Forever That Child At Age Five

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.

A Tree Falls

A tree falls in the forest.

Nobody is nearby. Nobody to hear.

Does it even make a sound?

A tree falls in the forest.

It will impact the ecosystem

even more than it impacts the ground.

A lighthouse stops its beacon.

A ship nearby is lost and weary.

It cannot see. It runs aground.

A man dies alone in his hut.

He was kind, he was friendly, he was good.

At his funeral, no friends of his could be found.

But one kind lady far away might remember.

He had helped her find her way, a long time ago.

And so his memory, perhaps, will be skyward bound

as the man who loved everybody but himself.

Time Is A Flat Circle

Nothing has changed since 10 years ago.

I am still that child who can do no right.

I still remember those same fears.

Fears of you. Fears of them. Fears of it.

I still remember those same people.

People who yell. People who hate. People who don't care.

I still make those same mistakes.

Rush-job, know-I-shouln't-but-I-do, idiotic mistakes.

I still beat myself up for it and do your job for you.

The yelling, the crying, the emptiness in the soul.

I still hate myself just the same.

Treating myself like shit, calling myself like shit, selling myself like shit.

I still love you all just the same.

Emptying my bucket for you, burning myself at the stake, taking your place in the gutter.

I still sort of want to kill myself.

The freedom, the release, the escape.

I still am a coward.

The fear, the chains, the inaction.

I am still that child who does only wrong.

Nothing has changed since 10 years ago.

The Foundations of Love

How can I get you to care about people? How can I get you to be kind?

Why do you think love happens? Why do you think people are altruistic at all?

It's not because someone told them to be, I'll tell you that much.

It's because love and kindness are what the world thrives on.

Nobody wins by being angry all the time. No man is an island.

The world is not zero-sum. Kindness shared is kindness tripled.

But I'll assume this doesn't convince you, or you would've found the path by age five.

Let's consider the people who were solitary. The people who didn't love.

Evolution filtered them all out. Evolution championed kindness.

And if that's not a good enough reason to love, then I don't know what is.

i think im just traumadumping with poetry at this point

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

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.

There Once Was A Child

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

Pushing Me

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.

How Much of Me Is the Real Me

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?