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.
Instead I sit silently at the shore with my hand on the gun and wait, listening.