Old Poem Updated, Still Rough


Am I pathetic or apathetic?

Or is it the other way round, am I pathetic in my apathy, do I need therapy?

In my mind ideas blossom like new suns in new universes,

wild, bright, hot, brilliant and hard to capture in these verses

only to be snuffed out like candles by the darkness.

The darkness within that is soft and pervasive, with the likeness

of smoke, if smoke were thick and heavy and suffocating

like a cloud weighing more than a herd of elephants fornicating

in my mind. The apathetic tide drowns out my suns

and purpose and drive for life is lost. Suddenly I am in my hands guns

of laziness and procrastination appear and I am shooting myself.

A captured soldier facing torture I watch as the sharp edge

of the self esteem pendulum swings closer to cutting myself.

I sit still clinging to my shield of denial and wearing the mask of ego

as thoughts stampede through my head like horses,  and from mouth spill

like a stream of wisdom and passion, and for a moment I almost believe

in myself. The sunrise almost peeks through the clouds to illuminate

the dull monotony of my waste but it’s crushed by the weight of fear.

Fear so potent and tangible I can cut a slice and eat it. What once was clear

is clouded by the blood dripping from from the ever swinging pendulum.

To relieve the cuts I bandage my wounds with fantasy,  the sum

total of my life is consumed by the lack of substance and worth,

with the obsessing of superficial matters like weight and girth

though everyday thousands of people die dreadful deaths and millions

more die the quiet death of desperation, blind to the billions

of stars that light the sky and like me blind, to the light within

in their minds that whisper things like “Change. Make the World a Better Place,

Make your Life mean something”.  We get drunk on fear to forget and regress,

our hearts bleed and cry their silents screams for meaning and purpose

but it hurts to admit that we are incomplete and lacking, so I suppose

we just laugh with people we hate and people who hate themselves

and drink ourselves into a stupor so that we can have a one night stand with ourselves

because only when we are drunk on false praise and applause can we handle it.

The fact that we are selling ourselves short of the shadow of our potential, unfit

to handle even the slightest sign that we can achieve and be somebody,

so we hide behind masks of complacency while inside screaming for anybody

to hear and understand that the guns and blade we are using hurt.

This is an honest poem that rips away the covers that we place to hide the pain,

like when an abused child walks around with long sleeves covering the bruises

we walk around with dead eyes to cover the hate, a false smile has its uses.

People know and understand but forget to remember because no one wants to know.

I am perfect and potential, and they understand how life is heavy and slow

and they too met with the cloud of apathy that killed their suns,

their seed and expression and so they finish the suicide with their guns,

each day walking through a life that gets gray and grayer and jumping hoops

illusions of meaning created by society to supplant and supplement, groups

built to contain and tame the desire for reality and like placebo pills

we believe that we are living life though we are only shadows and like oil spills

we only contaminate the world in an attempt to capture green paper and yellow rocks,

spilling red blood and killing our brothers so that we can be baptized in holy water. 

We walk through this valley of the shadow of death and dream of a real world

knowing that we only have to wake up from this dream to grasp our desire

but like an addicting nightmare, we are hooked,  our minds wrapped in the deceit

and so we joke about the zombie apocalypse and fail to see the dead within.

I say we when I really mean me because I am alone and I am dying,

I am watching as the life leaves me and I grow gray. I know who the murderer is

but I can’t stop myself because I love myself abusively and I am addicted to this pain.

To the roller coaster of love and hate that is myself, I am so strong and powerful that I cannot

stop myself from killing myself because I am pathetically apathetic.

I know myself the same way a bulimic girl knows her reflection in the mirror,

the goods and bad distorted and contorted and I am unable to decide what to do.

Drown myself in a sea of lust and false life or take the gun and kill myself and hope to resurrect,

to be resuscitated and given the breath of life

breath that will blow like a hurricane and clear the smoke.


3 thoughts on “Old Poem Updated, Still Rough

  1. Old poem perhaps. But thematically, fantastic. I do think the beginning was stronger, and as it went on it got a bit messier, more rough. For that sake (and perhaps also so you don’t completely lose your reader in your whirlwind) I suggest this: Consider breaking this up into a series of poems, or a set. It could be like 3 (or however many you so chose) movements of a sonata or concierto or symphonie. The music is all there, though. I am quite interested in what you will continue to do with this. (i.e.–I expect you to continue working this and will be quite upset if you don’t; you have greatness here.)

    • No worries my friend, this is a poem that I will never abandon. I’m glad you see greatness in it because I do as well and I feel like most people don’t. I am always working on this poem in my head and one of these days I will finish it. I will consider your idea and mess around with it, though another idea I was thinking about was potentially just tightening up the transitions and making it a slam piece. I’ll record and send you an example to see if it works.

      • If you tighten it and make it a slam piece, I think it could work well. Just pace yourself, don’t try to cram too much. But I feel like you could totally blast the audience away with this.

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