Mental Marionette

There seem so many truths,
Which one do I face?
Which one takes the place
On the pedestal?

When I tried to face them all,
They warned me I would fall,
Now I’m falling.
Trying to pretend
That the song will never end,
But for better or for worse
I think I’m running out of verse.

I can pretend at emotion,
Lip syncing to the song,
But the words are all rehearsed,
And every line is getting worse.
All I feel now is an emptiness,
Just nothingness, maybe less.

An undefined ache
Where I thought my soul should go,
But it’s always been a fake
And I just put on a show.
So convincingly the act
That I once believed the fact
That I could be a real girl.
But oh, Pinoccio,
I should have listened
To you.

Catch 22

If I had anything to say, maybe of interest,
I’d pin the fuckin’ thing up on my pinterest.
But all my conversations now are with myself,
And it’s slowly eating at my mental health.

Like seagulls picking at a whales’ rotting corpse,
The wide beach view is fine, until of course,
You look a bit closer, see the detail,
That’s my sanity: half eaten whale.

I should probably get a friend or maybe two,
I like them in the same way that I like you.
Fine until they open up their mouth,
Then I don’t want to hear whatever shit is coming out.

Well, maybe I’m a narcissistic bitch,
With some really messed up kind of mental itch,
But if I scratch it ’til it don’t itch no more,
There’ll be chunks of greyish matter scattered all over the floor.

They say you’ll never love someone until you learn to love yourself,
Well Catch 22, asshole, here’s a thought, I’ll share the wealth,
How can I learn to love me, ’til I’m shown love by someone else?
The lesson goes both ways, as most good lessons do,
Since everybody hates me,
I’ve learned how to hate me too.

Nothing for me.

Spent three weeks in an unmade bed,
A pounding in my skull,
Repeating thoughts in my head.
Like the lyrics of a song
Singing ‘please let me die before long.’

I’m trying hard to hold on to the act of holding on,
But even now my own mind wants me gone,
So the line I’m holding onto’s not that strong.
The basic problem with this kind of rope, you see,
Is that it’s tethered far too tightly to my sanity.

Maybe if I enjoyed a single moment,
Maybe if I could control or own it,
I’d be happier alive,
Given a reason to survive,
But all I get is non-stop misery.

So fuck me.
No apologies for profanity.
I’m stuck here in my head, wishing I was fuckin’ dead,
Because there’s nothing in this world that I can see,
Nothing for me.
Nothing for me.

Have You Seen This Life?

Have you seen my life around?
Now it’s lost,
I have found,
The whole world wanting.

Not pages torn from fairy tales,
Far stranger by many accords,
No songs to make a million sales,
Or plays stepped out on Broadway boards.

But it’s a dizzy, dancing, summer spark,
A falling, flying Meadowlark, and
All those nights spent in the park
Laughing in rain, and wet, and dark.

Also the sharpest knife that ever was,
A blade that has no par.
It has to be that sharp because
It constantly cuts, with ne’er a scar.

Those kind of days are hard to misplace,
Oft’ tattooed upon my face,
There, in ink you can’t erase,
Writ large the tale, my fall from grace.

Fading

I’m not sure if I forgot
Or have just grown indecisive,
But I can’t really quite recall
Exactly what my life is.
I used to know where I belong.
Used to have a favourite song.
Favourite author.
Favourite food.
Favourite colour.
Favourite mood.
Now I don’t know
What my greatest fear is,
Favourite beer is,
Time of year is,
Or even how deep the lithosphere is..
OK, I never really knew that last one,
Carry on, my wayward son.

“..hardly hedgerows, little lines..”

Melancholy musings must
As everything, regress to dust.
All things return from whence they came,
Doth my memory the same.

Sparks of Spring-blessed childhood.
Early risings and cool dawn grass,
As sunrise amplified reality
Granting tiny temporary kingdoms
To my imaginative keeping.

Barefoot child I,
Twixt river and orchard wild,
Would careless spend my day
Full of mud, fruit and fae.
Until as is wont, up I grew.
Something one should never do..

Weekdays

I hate weekdays,
They drag us from our bed,
Where we could snuggle down together,
Keep each other warm instead.
The winter morning chill pervades the room,
Then together, almost as one, and far too soon,
We cast aside the cover,
Glancing shrewdly at each other
Before competing for first shower,
Hot-water, soap, and scour,
While the other makes us coffee,
With toast all buttered down,
Warming frozen fingers,
Wrapped in a dressing gown.
Humming out a cheerful morning song.
Perhaps I don’t hate weekdays all along.

Intermission quotes #2

Melvin Udall: “People that talk in metaphors oughta shampoo my crotch.”

-As Good As it Gets

——-

Melvin Udall: “Some of us have great stories, pretty stories that take place at lakes, with boats, and friends, and noodle salad. Just no one in this car. But, a lot of people, that’s their story; good times, noodle salad. What makes it so hard is not that you had it bad, but that you’re that pissed that so many others had it good.”

– As Good As It Gets

———

“Procrastination is a way for us to be satisfied with second-rate results; we can always tell ourselves we’d have done a better job if only we had more time…If you’re good at rationalizing, you can keep yourself feeling rather satisfied this way, but it’s a cheap happy. You’re whittling your expectations of yourself down lower and lower.”

-Richard O’Connor

Together Forever (not)

So this is what ‘forever’ looks like
From the other side.
A lot like broken promises
And echoes of goodbye.
Like everything you never got
But always thought you’d get.
Like each forgotten lonely grave
Of every childhood pet.
The only thing that’s certain is,
It looks a lot like loneliness.

Sharp as a hammer

There may be those who think I’m just not that bright.
But I can find a door-frame in the dark,
I don’t need a light.

There’s no mail service here on any weekend day.
I know the letterbox is empty,
But I’ll go and check it anyway.

If the remote doesn’t work
I mash harder,
If there’s no food in fridge or in larder,
I’ll check two-dozen more times just to see,
If something appeared magically.

I can open those childproof caps,
But still the hot and cold taps
Confound me unless coloured or labelled,
Or why a tablespoon is not for the table.

And I still trust people,
I still open up my heart.
And I still can’t find myself
In the dark.

Innocence lost

So you’re empty,
And you’re angry,
You’re confused.
Once with hope
That’s now gone,
It’s been used.

Stole your believing,
Simply leaving
So much doubt.
You let the world in,
Now a hollow thing.
Eaten from the inside out.

So you sit there,
And you don’t care,
You’re forsaken.
They took so much more
Than you had in store
To be taken.

And the heart
You once had,
Truly aches.
In this world,
Innocence
Always breaks.

Shooting my mouth off

I’m dressed to bitch, and
There’s an angry itch
Behind my eyes.
One that says I may be guilty
Of more than one demise.
Imagine their surprise
As I cut them down to size.
My verbal six-shooters hang in cross-draw,
Sights filed down, and furthermore,
With a quick-pull-trigger,
This mouth is set to go off.
‘You’d better run, better run,
Outrun my gun.’

Irony

The meadowlark laughed.
Her singular propensity for disregarding
Guilt and sorrow
Made me think of you.
Everyday is such a perfect day
To be down.
Especially days when you’re around.
I try to tolerate such intolerable intolerance,
Given the chance. The circumstance.
It’s not the end
Of the world,
But I still fall
For the straight girl.

Life is cruel and sadistic. (blog)

“It’s for the best.”

“It’s only a cat.

“You don’t want him to suffer ”

….

Such are the platitudes intended to make it easier to murder my companion of twelve years. My best and only friend. The most gentle and pure soul I have ever encountered, and quite probably the only reason I’m still alive.

When he’s gone…I can’t begin to imagine..

Now I must hold him in my lap while he is murdered.
MURDERED! despite knowing it will end his suffering and it must be done.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
I haven’t done anything else.

Wreck

My life, the eponymous derailing train,
Out of control, and I’m feeling the same.
At least the wreck will be magnificent.
Read the news, see how it went,
My life in print, splashed across a page.
So unremarkable for someone my age,
She lived, she died, is what it will read.
The in-between is what I need.
So much time and room to grow,
I hope I do, before I go.

Resistance is Futile..

[ Connection Stable]
[ Downloading Personality Upgrade ]
….
Version 23.07b:
In this version there are major updates to the [Happiness Sub-Routines], which will lead to overall performance in:
-Depression Suppression
-Sarcasm Reduction
-Doubt and Misery (bug fix)

Also in this update, Greater Reduction in:
-Independent Thought
-Individuality
-Rebelliousness

Leading to smoother functioning Personality Systems, and Happiness performance.

Some Users may notice feelings of discomfort and lack of self identity, but with our new social media peer pressure campaign, this should soon pass, as you become accustomed to being just like everybody else.


[ Upgrade Download Complete ]

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Bus Seat. (prosetry)

Sits uneasily, bus seat perfunctory.
A lump of hard plastic.
Stares through the once was window, now just a diary of scratches and rage.
Watches uncertain possibilities of herself huddling around trash-can fires, scrounging through back alleys behind steaming food stores.
Standing staring back with vacant yet accusing eyes.

Sees herself in the cracks.
The could have been.
Might have been.
Almost was.
Hot and heavy tears,
Almost unfallen,
Often unnoticed.
Always unsure.
Perhaps they fall for all the could-have-beens.
Perhaps they fall because I’m uncertain on which side of the glass I belong.
Feels lucky.

Feels guilty.
Hates the burden of this unwanted blame.
Unresolved guilt builds into anger.
Resents your unspoken accusations.
Sick with self-doubt about how true they may actually be.
Hates these imagined obligations of grief, twisted and embedded in my head.
All these not-so-very-unlikely possible, potential versions of me.

I hate them.
I hate you.
I hate myself.
I hate society, for making me feel as though I should constantly feel lucky.

Lucky to be as damaged and fucked up and empty as I really am.
Oh, so lucky.

Checking In. (prose)

‘And how are things with you these days, Alice?’, inquired The Cheshire Cat.

‘Well’, she answered, ‘You know that feeling when everything seems to be working out?
Your chickens have all come home to roost.

There’s a glorious sunrise, and finally, life is good’?

‘No’, replied The Cat, ‘ I can’t say that I do’.

‘Oh’, said Alice, thoughtfully, then after a little while, rather sadly, ‘Me neither’.

Once upon a lover

How long since gentle hands
Knew well the contours of my face?
My body.
Your hands.

When last did we not kiss,
Rather drink of each others lips
The lingering taste of dew
And morning sun?

Too many days plus one,
My love,
Too many days plus one.

“…I want to get off.”

I smile and pretend like I’m ok,
And everyone I know
Views me that way.
But my masks are made from stone and lead,
And I carry them all
Inside of my head.

I know there’s something wrong with me,
But I don’t know what, and
No one can see
The cuts that run across my skin,
Where my soul seeps out,
And the world creeps in.

I don’t know about this thing called life,
Seems like it’s just a metaphor
For suffering and strife.
I’ve tried to see the beauty others see,
But I’m really not so sure
This world is for me.

life sucks, and then..

Death, a rotting corpse of us doth make,
No different thus to when as fools
We lived and thought we were awake.
How arrogant our daily toil,
Because we moving breathed and spake.
How easily this mortal coil
Leaves us to linger in its wake.

barefoot

When all my tomorrows are just yesterdays,
And today is today is todays old replays,
And so many come, but nobody stays,
What then? Well what then?

When my thoughts are a filthy and fraying shoelace
That I should cut loose, and simply replace,
Except I’m afraid my shoes won’t stay in place,
What then? Oh what then?

If there’s no one to talk to, not even myself,
And I don’t have a thing cos i don’t have my health,
And my life keeps on stealing my spiritual wealth,
What then? So what then?

When the colour of sadness is always blood red,
And there’s somebody other than me in my head,
When I feel less alive and slightly more dead,
What then? What then?

set in our ways..

Don’t you think it’s strange
How we shift, change, rearrange,
Everything we can, but stay the same?

How each of us ourselves behoove
To grow, move, further improve,
Strive and strive, yet we never arrive.

We tell ourselves that all our pain
Is part of life, to strain and gain,
How accepting we all are.

Before we grow too old,
Grow cold, end stuck in a mold,
Are we able to break free?

Well to show you that I can:
I just rhymed carrot
With banana.