This past few months have been a particularly dark period in my short 28 years of existence. Some of the darkest so far. I have emerged more fragile and more anti-fragile, both at once. The previous sentence may seem counter-intuitive but it expresses my thoughts as well as words are capable of expressing thought. I have to apologize for the lack of posts for even though my despair was great, it is a writers job to fight the despair of life. Sadly the verse I present offers no salvation and i expect no sympathy. It might seem morbidly dark but as someone once said, “It is what it is.”.
As I sat there beneath the ill-patched roof, lost in levity.
This unstill friend of mine, began ruminating on things gone by.
Could stop it no wind, nor water, no force of gravity.
As it cleanly shredded my countless, neatly sown lies.
No veil of illusion could stand the onslaught of such ferocity.
The veneer of bravery collapsed under dark, broken skies.
The things I thought and the things that were, no parallel ‘tween the two.
Like non-coplaner, non-colinear, non-eucledian lines.
Agony of plenty painful epiphanies, cleanly boring through.
Deep into the core of the mind where not a sliver of hope shines.
The truth is, was, will truth remain, this much is obviously true.
What was I thinking so carelessly, callously sifting through mines?
These thoughts won’t go away, no matter what I say to self.
Should I just give in and wallow in self-pity?
Misanthropic, misogynistic, masochistic reflection of self.
Am I these thoughts, are these thoughts me?
So many unopened books on my mind’s bookshelf.
Do I dare try open one? I’m scared of what I might see.
This carefully crafted image of self slowly burned away.
Leaving behind noting but a blasphemous pile of ash.
This thing called self-respect seems a stranger after all these days.
This thing called self-pity, a savior, courageous and crass.
And torn apart, my whole being. My will holds no sway.
I have slit, stabbed, buried myself, six feet under the grass.