I Need To Move

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.

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

i think im just traumadumping with poetry at this point

An Unrealistic Wish

Fair lady, your grace

astounds me. Your beauty is

simply unparalleled. Oh, what I would give

to be one of your faces, each beautiful,

each with their own touch -

immaculate, pouting, smiling, caring, sharp, soft, all perfect.

But I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that.

Instead, I am stuck in this

muck of a body. My ugliness is

quite gastly. I suppose it is nature.

To be a Man, this vulgar, disfigured-at-conception

shambling mound of meat, fucking years of effort

just for the body to be fit and healthy, much less attractive,

and even less so the face.

And don't get me started on the person.

Oh, yes, I suppose partly inherited, but I'm sure mostly inherent -

the rage, violence, crassness, brash impusiveness,

the chaos and unbefitting nature of it all.

Why, I can't even love myself like this -

What kind of asshat would I be to ask for love from you?

But I digress. See, this is what I mean -

Even now I overpower, I crush and push and talk

as if I am the only real person in the world, a spoiled brat -

whining about how bad he has it

to people who've had much worse.

Forget me. I've been

too much of a burden on you. I'm sorry.

Even now your kindness and generosity shine through

my darkest clouds, my deepest woes,

and I'm sorry I waste your blessings like this.

Thank you for your time. I know, I know -

I cannot be one of your faces. I am what I am:

a greedy little shit of a Man who is only after your looks

and even if I had it, it would be fake, a cheap imitation

of your boundless perfection. But thank you for

at least considering it. Oh, and before you go -

I love you. You're beautiful.

Forever That Child At Age Five

Do you ever wonder if people can really change beyond their formative years?

"Sure they can. Maybe not the whole, but a solid chunk? Yeah."

Well, I suppose that's true to some extent.

A man can live the first 20 years of his life in a constant state of movement.

Studying, working, doing chores, being what he needs to be in order to survive a harsh environment.

Then he can live the next 20 years in a carefree state of relaxation,

and live the last 50 as the hardworking man once more to provide for his family.

Or at least, that's the story of my father.

But I fear I am still going to be that same child I was, back when I was five, ten, fifteen.

I fear I am forever going to be under the shadow of that man,

that man who had two children without even realizing how fucked up his own childhood was.

I fear I will never become anything more, at my core, than that five year old child.

Sure, I suppose I'll change, superficially; maybe I'll know a bit more, fit into society a bit more, and so on.

But at heart I will still be that same, sad, scared little child,

a child who would do anything for a bit of affirmation and approval.

I fear that when I am thirty, or fifty, or eighty, or a hundred-twenty, or however the fuck long I live,

that I will still be no different from the child I was when I was five.

I fear that I am always going to be the same little boy who begs for just the slightest bit of love.

I fear that I am forever that child at age five.

Overachieving

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

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?

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.

Just One More Year

Just one more year until the Event That Decides My Life

and then I'll finally be free

The event comes and goes.

I am now free.

He takes it away again.

Just one more year,

Just one more year.

Just one more year,

Just one more year.

Just one more year until you can get what you want

and then you'll finally be free

The year comes and goes

You are free. Nothing changed.

Because he took it away again.

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.