blather
they_call_me_truth
They call me Truth We only scratch the surface. Our words only pierce a little under skin
only enter a little deep within, not enough to draw blood. There is so much that I do not know and it fascinates me, to know that there are lines that I can't cross and still try to cross them, knowing that there are questions so deep that i sometimes get lost in them. We know what we have been told, what others mold within the folds of our cerebellum, ideas pumped into us since we were not even a year old. But now as I grow and I choose to question all that I was taught, looking into the most interesting parts, trying to decipher for myself the thoughts that govern me, the beliefs that once brought me the illusion of certainty now give me the wonder of what if and the mindset that I was once set in seems too stiff. The message has blurred, but it does not fill me with despair, but with hope, that I can forge something new within the walls of this infinite space, that there is a darkness I can face to discover light. Yes, the mystery is vast and the surface doesn't last, shaken and destroyed by revolution, created anew through evolution of the heart of the soul lying deep within everything. I know i don't know much but i know enough to see that a good life is not won only through knowledge but also through wisdom, the wisdom to apply whats in your heart to all your parts, the wisdom to apply whats in your mind to the life you live, to the love you give.

Sometimes i wonder if i really want to escape to see, break the bonds of history, and uncover the mystery. I don't think so. I am still here enjoying the exhilaration of wondering the inspiration in pondering the various unknowns in this world. We find joy in the journey not the destination. And so instead of really wanting the answer, I delight in the question, in the mystery unknown. I am not ready to know. 		080705
...
They call me Truth I got her resting on my shoulder blade, lying in this love we made, sent across universes on the night I prayed
For her
Distant memories call out to me and I call back
And what she leaves in me is this constant thievery that leaves my mind ransacked
She takes it all and I gladly give it
Love is pain for those who live it
But it sometimes gets easier
My light shines when I’m pleasing her


I got her resting on my shoulder blade, lying in this love we made, thinking of the price we paid
For us
Destinations lost in doubts and unrealized promises
Emotions are translated through deep kisses
But what I for sure miss is
Her kiss when it was sure
And this love when it was pure
Before all the fights
Before all the bitter late nights
When she had complete faith in this
Yes that’s what I most miss
The fairy tale of beginning

And I won’t say it always gets easier
And no I am not always pleasing her
And I can’t end this poem with a fairy-tale ending
There is still so much that needs mending
This love is under construction
Barely escaped from the jaws of destruction
Trying desperately to save it from corruption

I got her resting on my shoulder blade, lying on this love I laid, for her
I got her resting on my shoulder blade, listening to the heart that beats, for her
Resting on the Blade

I got her resting on my shoulder blade
Resting on the blade
Hoping it doesn’t cut too deep
I got her resting on my shoulder blade, lying in this love we made, a pause in time for one moment delayed, hoping that her love won’t fade
For me
I hope but I try not to worry much
Just holding on to this moment that I am lost in her touch 		080705
...
They call me Truth Faithful Repetition

It’s tragic
That some call the art of illusion magic
That we only see in color when we are watching television
But we see everything else in black and white and we choose our sides with precision
That the magnitude of our current attitude is not just crude and rude
It’s ridiculous
And we don’t think because too much thought is said to be too meticulous
Thus, we don’t see
That the things we do and the words we speak
Make known to the world that our own minds are weak
We ask why there is suffering
And that’s not what’s troubling
What’s troubling is that we don’t see our contribution
That we shift blame by using crafty substitution
We replace “us” with “them”
And with that action we cut off growth at the stem
Now nothing grows, just forever repeats
And we look down and see blood at our feet
And now “them” is trading their blood for ours
It was hate that knocked down the towers
And some other things I need not mention
So that you can continue to believe the lie that our government had the best intentions
Keep thinking that they didn’t know
That their ignorance wasn’t just a show
And some of you know in your heart
That these talking heads played the greatest part
Misdirection is a very old art
But like I said, nothing grows, it just repeats
And we can wash forever and not remove the blood from our feet
Off our hands or off our backs
Because with hate in our hearts we waged our own attacks
We are all responsible
Because we said nothing
There are no consequences for their actions
They admit that there was no connection
And the lies go deeper after further inspection
Let’s see if we can wash our hands after this election
And conveniently cover up our actions with more misdirection
If it was you
If it was you
Would it be okay
Would it be all good
That the perpetrators got away just because they could
If it was you, would it be alright
If some foreign invader killed your family in the dead of night
What, you didn’t know?
That we forced a whole country into submission
Waging a war under the cloak of suspicion
Yes I am in despair
Because I have the right mind to see
That anger is not an excuse to give up your humanity
But we will forget
We will move on and forget the crimes of our nation
Because we reserve the right to try others for war crimes in international courts
While we get away only with shameful memories
We’ve been doing this for centuries
This is about more than just this nation
It’s about the world
We forget the things we do and do them again
We have always shifted the blame from “us” to “them”
And for that reason it will all repeat
And the blood will rise above our feet
And drown us all 		080705
...
They call me Truth Chaotic Utterances

Everything blows in the wind, tossed by circumstance into the void of nothingness and no one believes in anything strong enough to say that they won’t let circumstance get this one thing. Nothing is safe. Nothing is sacred. Promises are empty in uncertainty. My tears cannot fill this void. And I can not bare its emptiness, like a fortress of darkness pressed against me tearing my body away, casting it into a hole of desperation and chaos. I am lost and I have lost the will to grieve for my loss.
But if I have the will to say no to circumstance and I am alone in this then let it be. I will be alone even if it pains me. I will do the impossible even it kills me. I will make a choice and let it pierce through the night, let it bring order to this chaos, take control of this moment and this life and toss my insecurities and fears into the void. Let the void have its fill of them. I am done with them. I won’t think of them. They are the chains that chain me down in the dark hole of a decaying eternity and my shoulders do not wear this sweat to be destroyed in cold flames. Everything blows in the wind and my anger calls me to challenge this. You may not have control of everything, but you can have control of you and let that suffice as the only pleasure worth seeking and the only wisdom worth living. You can live and you can love and you can own yourself. You can be yourself.
I am not asking for you to follow me. But these holes that hold my eyes are damp with the musk of rain and this rain escapes from my ocular cavities one more time for you, one more time for this world I will leave behind, this world of unlived dreams. I shower this ground before me with rain and gently clutch at my sanity. That too I will eventually let go for something more crazy, something less lazy and easily manipulated by the passage of time.
Who am I? I am the void slowly rising from its depths and the tears that cannot fill it. I am time slowly unfolding and winding and turning back on its wheels. I am chaos in certainty. I am confusion and sane delusion. I am the momentum of slippery ice and I am twice as cold. I am nothing. I am something. I am someone whose eyes have caused floods, whose veins have pumped blood, whose eyes were wired shut but are now open. I am unease and lack of peace. I am solitude. I am lonely. I am searching for a piece of world that I can cherish.
You may not understand what I am saying. The rhythm of my heart beats twice in one moment and my brain is fried from the fire that consumes me. I don’t understand myself. This is the language of sorrow but also the language of hope and its secrets are concealed even to me. These words spill out of me like incoherent mutterings in the night. I cannot make them out. They are too far away and too close to me. Too close and I know that rest of my world would crumble if I could truly understood.
Everything blows in the wind, tossed by circumstance, lost in utterance, retrieved by the soul. And this provides some warmth to withstand the cold. 		080705
...
They call me Truth Spirit: Admittance

I admit that I incite delay and invite decay
That my old bones move in the same motions they moved yesterday
That they still shiver at change
I admit that my mouth seldom changes its monotonous tones
And still whispers the same lies to these old bones
I admit that I am walking the same road…or a similar one
I admit that I seldom let my inner voice out of its cage
And I sometimes cover behind my lowered head
That I don’t say much when I should
And don’t do more when I could
I admit I make excuses
And I admit that I admit to making excuses and make them anyway
I admit that I let my beliefs sit on my tongue because I don’t have the courage sometimes to say them.
That I let myself neglect the right choices because I don’t have the courage to make them
I admit that I talk big and live small
And that I don’t try to fly because I am afraid to fall
And it may seem like to be cautious is just common sense
When it really is just common mediocrity becoming manifest
Common pages being written in common cages also known as common books
Common gestures being accompanied by common looks
And nothing so common could ever be good
And If it could
It wouldn’t be common
It would be exceptional
I admit that I avoid being exceptional exceptionally
And I do this intentionally
Because I am afraid of my greatness inside of me
You see, I am only half free, if I only let the world see half of me
And I admit that that is not the way I want it to be
To create this restriction because I can’t bare the weight of my own conviction
I admit I sometimes cower behind the tower of my own power
I admit that my inner integrity is better than the outward best of me times three
That giving less of me is stopping the rest of me from embracing my destiny
And I don’t have to guess to see or know that it’s destroying me
With every half breath I invite death
With every half step I trade depth for shallowness
And with every half true prose I expose my hollowness
So let me be perfectly honest
I am half the man I should be
And ¼ the man I could be
And it saddens me
And it maddens me
That this happens to be
The one moment I can admit to it all passionately
I don’t want this passion in me to pass on with me
Without ever being free
Without ever tasting the air and feeling it wash against its face
And if I can let a little out in my poetry
If I can open up a little so that I can let these brittle lips let a little go
So that the world can see
Then I can take my next breath a little more calmly
And wait a little more patiently for this thing in me to break free

I admit that I believe that things will change today but there is a possibility it won’t
Because I battle with me and the strong arms of conformity
I battle with me and the thin thread that holds my sanity
I battle with me and the happenstance that brought on the circumstance that gave me the chance to write this poetry
But if this moment can resurrect a little of myself with it
Can ignite a little of my spirit with it
Then I can admit with confidence
That my providence will live
And I will live to see it 		080705
...
They call me Truth Religion vs Spirituality


My mind races like wild rages in cages
And doubt floods when I turn the pages
I just read that God ordained the slaughter of a village
Because they weren’t chosen…
He told the Israelites that these people were evil and needed to be destroyed
Men women and babies
Tossed into the void
Of nothingness
And I wonder what did the babies do?
To be regarded as unclean to You?


Is it wrong for me to judge God by His own law?
Are my words of decent heresy?
I saw blood stained on the walls and called it blasphemy
Thou shall not kill
Thou shall not kill
Thou will
If ordained by God
How long do you think it would remain hidden?
That you ordered the “chosen” to kill your own children

Yeah, I know
What is wrong with me?
Don’t I know that hell burns for eternity?
But if I am not honest with myself, who else will
If my name was God would I be justified to kill?
And if I should fear hell, I might as well have my integrity
And be bold enough to see what’s right in front of me

Let me clear my throat….

My words may shock some of you and I’ve been told that it is not my place to say such things. That the artful confusion bought by mass delusion is really the solution to the hideous intrusion of our souls by the legion, for they are many. But I see something else, and I can’t help but voice my decent to the slavery of the mind and the heart and the soul, the true faces of God. What I see is man telling man that a book given from man isn’t from man but from God, killing and torturing and slaughtering many through the ages for voicing other thoughts and having other views. What I see are thoughts and mindsets bought into fruition by an institution called religion that separates more men than they bring together. Everyone, everywhere has the “true” word and silences all others so they can’t be heard. And so we fight wars called crusades to purge the world from evil ways. What I see is a world still separated by words and not united by hearts, still fighting wars through violent arts. If God is love then where is He? Why would you hate a Jew because he does not accept Christianity? That’s why I am a man who trades religion for spirituality, finding God through love, not hate, finding heaven on earth, not having to wait. And so in the end if one of these Gods from one of these books decides that I should go to hell, I will be glad that I loved the world and loved it well.

The greatest of all things is love. God is love 		080705
...
They call me Truth Hip Hop Artist

Can you spell redundant?
Rhymes escape from your fingertips
Spur from your lips
And to me, they all sound the same
If they redefined "lame"
It would be you
Only you can make a new album with the same concept as the last album and call it new

What was the theme of your last album?
Guns, Money, Drugs, and Bitches
What is the theme of your new album?
Drugs, Money, Guns, and Bitches

There are people dying all over the world for no reason
Casualties of this war season
While the murderers of thousands are digging ditches
You are here rapping 'bout guns and bitches
I don't see much of a difference
You're just an extension of the same hate
Forgive me for making that inference

If you truly recognized you would apologize
But you don't
And I forgive you for your ignorance.

You don't realize that words have power
That people are killed by gang violence every hour
You too busy talking shit

You don't realize that this world's indecencies
In all its frequency
Is perpetuated by your delinquency

Even if the bullshit you speak is a lie
It was still the theme song for this week's drive-by
Even if it was a hoe that scratched that itch
You just told the world it is alright to call a sister a bitch

If the shoe fits, wear it
And if its the truth, declare it
And if you got something to say, share it

But do you think anyone is threatened by how many times you can say FUCK
in a song
Should we be impressed that you can say a word four letters long

Do you think you are a threat
You have bought into the system
You want to be hard, driving in your million dollar car with diamonds around your neck that carry the blood of Africans
You just furthered the exploitation of niggers
While reducing our image to monkeys that pull triggers
But if a dude has something to say we are haters
Yeah, that figures

You think they care?
They want us to kill ourselves
You think you really own that house?
I think you're funny
You're a puppet, dummy
A puppet in expensive clothing
A capitalist in thug coating
You sold your soul for a gold ring
Well aint that something?

I wish it was but it's not
The soul is the most important thing you got

well....

Congratulations
I hope it was worth it 		080705
...
They call me Truth What is Love

What is love?
Hypnotic, poetic, aggressive
Twisted, crazy, depressive
Expressive Excessive obsessive

No doubt it’s psychotic in its eroticism
Powerful in its realism
Naïve in its idealism
One sided in its wisdom
It seeks and greets and meets and beats its teeth into the side of every heart
And plays every part like an expert musician
It forces you to make a decision
And you always choose it
You don’t want to lose it
Its glorious uproarious glistening bliss and
Its amazing, dazing, blazing, pace and
Its beauty
You get all caught up on it
And you fought so long for it
You can’t turn your back on it
This is love you’re talking about
Not when you’re just starting to figure it out

But did you?
Really?
Even when you have it you still don’t know
And even when you don’t want it, it still won’t go
It creeps under your crevices and it starts to grow
Its deep possessiveness just won’t let go
And it shows, and it flows, and it goes
Into your veins and gains momentum
Until it takes you over
And you realize you still didn’t understand
Love is greater than any man
And infinitely more powerful

Something this powerful should not ever be in hands of minds so weak
So flawed
But you have to admire the determination
The unrelenting desire to hold it, to mold it, to own it, something as wild as the wind
But we still try
To capture it
But how can you cage something that cages you?
We are all swiped up in its clutches.
Perhaps if we could only learn to love right
Perhaps if we knew its true nature
But something as mysterious as God could never be known completely
And something so majestic could never be packaged so neatly
And what a pity, we still try

We still ask…
What is love? 		080705
...
They call me Truth Spirit

In darkness there is only one light. It is the light of your heart. In silence there is only one voice. Your inner voice. In fear there is only one form of courage. It is your brave spirit. In the face of any obstacle, any moment of struggle, any place in time where it seems like failure is inevitable, there is one encouragement. Nothing is impossible.
The power that lays dormant, that hides behind crooked smiles, behind the layers of skin that grind against the thick air; this is the power that will save a man, and also bring him to his demise. There is truth in contradiction, faith in lies, and beauty in the power of man’s ability to make lies into truth. There is ultimately no difference between a lie and a truth, because they both drive people to do extraordinary and despicable things, and the construct itself is created within our own minds. One man can follow the truth, and many men can believe in a lie.
But what of it all? In a moment of silence I found a beautiful true fiction, a paralyzing momentum, a shifting stillness that gave me the courage to think that there is truly something greater underneath the rocks on the seashore if you have the courage and the will and the determination to look for it. I have peered under rocks and I have seen even bigger rocks cemented together by infinitely smaller ones. This is love. This is life. This is God. And they are all synonymous.
I continue to dig with youthful obsession and fervent anticipation. I haven’t found much but I have found enough to encourage me to keep digging. In these moments life is beautiful, to know that there is something to do and heights to reach and depths to unravel; that there are questions that can be answered.
I am guided by the same passion that has guided many before me. I am rewarded and disciplined by the same earth that will shelter many to come from the cruel emptiness of space. It is human to wish to discover. It is human to wish to be better than the previous day. It is only human to reach for something more. Complacency bores us. Stillness causes our bones to rust. We are most alive when we are in the face of calamity, when are hearts burn and our minds circulate ideas. Even when we try to quiet our mind it takes conscious effort. Everything takes effort. Effort is movement. Movement is everything.
We are the gears that power the machine. 		080705
...
They call me Truth Parasite

It’s all about what you are willing to let go. It’s equivalent exchange, one thing for another. The question is: What are you willing to give up.
It’s complicated, this life thing, like a worm crawling under the skin with no entrance wound. You can’t dig it out. You will hurt yourself. You can’t wait for it to come out on its own. It’s a parasite and it feeds off your pains, your sorrows, your awkward anxious moments. You can’t starve yourself. You will die too. There is nothing you can do really, but allow the worm to slime its way through you, sucking at you, eating your tissue, drinking you up through its curly straw body. Nothing. You are a helpless host to Life.
The only option is to let something go, in exchange for something else. I wanted to kill this parasite, but I had to sacrifice something in order to be granted the power to do so. I was weak and cowardly, my body frail from years of being robbed of nourishment.
But life is not really like a parasite. You owe life for granting you the opportunity to experience it. And it’s not that you can’t do any of these things to stop the feasting on your flesh; it’s that you won’t. You are not willing to make that sacrifice.
When I thought about it to myself it became apparent to me. I wanted acceptance. I wanted to be acknowledged and I wanted to fit with everyone else. At the same time I wanted to be myself, whatever that was, and I wanted to feel free to be that way, no matter what. This was the inner struggle, the eternal conflict. But I also thought to myself that such acceptance wouldn’t be real. They are not accepting me, they are accepting me…modified. I was forcing myself into the puzzle by shaving my edges away but it was obvious that I was red and the other pieces were shades of brown.
I know I’m a fraud and it infuriates me. My ego allows me to fantasize about the millions of other people who know they are frauds and are infuriated by it. They know they are frauds and the fraudulence of others annoys them and ignites contempt in their souls because it reminds them of themselves. I imagine that everyone around me is thinking it, but it’s not coming out of their mouths. I imagine that everyone is burying it in the pit of their stomachs afraid to let it spew from their oral cavities, or show in their awkward stares, be revealed by a tremble or a facial expression, or in the words they say. I imagine everyone is like me, slowly decaying under the immense pressure of following rules and ignoring their heart. I imagine that the ground is shaking under them but they position themselves in chairs and talk about the comfort of their chairs.
What are we? Are we donkeys pretending to be horses or are we horses reducing ourselves to impotent mules?
A voice in my head answers:

We are lost. 		080705
...
They call me Truth The Jackal

Murder. The sound of it draped off my tongue like curtains. Murder. I repeated it to myself. But this plan, this diabolical urgency to deal death was stalled by the fact that Life, as was apparent by all the stories of it, was absolute. How could I kill it?

Life has a tendency of being elusive. Ever since I was young (or younger) it always seemed like no one had a firm grip on it. It was unpredictable, spontaneous, sometimes outright dangerous, and even though these were qualities that silly girls found attractive in men, it was not always the most attractive thing when it came from life, that had no gender, or age, just causes and effects. Causality. Chaos. Mostly unknown, shrouded in mystery; life raged like a hurricane and nothing could stop its path.

I struggled to grapple my mind around such a creature, not of flesh and bone, but of ideas, events, time, love, hate, happiness, sadness, meaning, meaninglessness, beginning…end. Was it a plague or some wonderful and beautiful thing given as a blessing? Was it in our control or did it control us? Is it our ultimate destiny to submit to it until it decides it no longer needs us?

A dead body on the side of the road, motionless, life already gone from the soon to decay mound of flesh, and someone finds it. The body is picked up, by people that pick up dead bodies. They pick this dead, let us say man, from the street. They have conversation. They may even joke about how heavy the body is.

It’s a necessary process, this selection, like a ride that must come to its end so others can get on. You don’t know this man. You have never met him. You may picture what it would be like to die the way he did, let us say he was shot, but you would never really know. You haven’t met death, and you haven’t felt the absence of life, or the feeling of it moving away from you. This massive creature that surrounded you always, how could you imagine the absence of it? But the process is necessary is it not? New people. New lives. New experiences. Time eliminates individual life so that the entity can continue to exist. Life must feed off its parts so that it can sustain itself.

We are built to be destroyed. We are cattle rounded up so that we can feed the greater mechanic, the controller, the creator of our lives. We have purpose. Our purpose is to be born and die and in the middle wonder about the two. Our purpose is to be ignorant, to not know, to fill our heads with dreams and beliefs, with religions and stacks of paper that tell us how to live life, so that we may be rewarded, somehow, somewhere in the future after. Does such a future exist? There is a deep possibility, a looming fear, an endless deep reservoir of uncertainty that life creates. And why does this creature do this, so that we have no choice but to waste our days on the trivial things because the big things are so vague, so that we can drive ourselves crazy with illusions of right and wrong, so that in the end we can curl into our own heaping mass of cells and chemicals and just die?

The jackal rests on the side of the road, howling into the night, shrouded in darkness, staring up at the crescent moon. The moon’s light is a lullaby that caresses and comforts. Who knows of the light in this world and why so many prefer it to the darkness. The jackal howls. The cavern of earth echoes the sound and lets it travel until the ripples are too weak to sustain themselves. In the twilight, the quiet void, the beautiful velvet black sky, trickled with softer lights called stars, the jackal eases his mind. Life is beautiful. So many struggle to find that beauty. So many die never finding it. 		080705
...
They call me Truth The Dead

The dead walk alone and hold hands with themselves as the ashes become them. They collapse under the weight of life gone, choices gone wrong, the game being over. The dead cry but their tear ducts are dry, the ultimate torture. Some take crying for granted but not the dead. The ability to release pain is cherished among the dead just as the ability to feel it is craved. The dead are numb and tragic but they feel, they feel numbly, they feel in a way only the dead can feel, they feel the emptiness, the void that was never filled in life and grows infinitely deeper. The dead feel. They feel with a passion that is passionless, a long moment of dark purity that can’t be wiped away with the decay of their bodies.
If you think I am talking about the real dead you are only half right. The death of the living while alive is quite real; the game being over because of the blind acceptance to its rules. Death doesn’t always happen to people who die; sometimes it affects the living and gives them the taste of the grave. The feeling of emptiness, the pulsating numbness passing among us like a plague more lethal than the bubonic, twice as deadly because it keeps you alive while killing you. You can go through a whole life without living.
It is this type of desperation that is the most gaping, most obscene, it gnaws at everything, your mind, your body, your soul, all withheld from the most momentous opportunity: life. But instead of life being granted to them they receive more death, each day. It is sad when you grow accustomed to dying, so much so, that you don’t even notice anymore.
But I will remind the dying of the symptoms of the dead. I will inform the formless of the formality of conformity and uniformity. The denial of the soul is death. Apathy is death. Not being able to speak your mind out of fear is death. Not being able to follow your heart because the choices aren’t available to you is death. Wasting a day in the completion of meaningless obligations instead of your true passions is death. Seeing the dying and the dead around you without it causing emotion in your own heart is death. Seeing loss of life done in your name that you do not agree with and not saying anything about it is death. Running away is death. Quitting is death. Not knowing who you are is death. Not having purpose is death. Shifting through a meaningless existence is death. Denying love is death. Hate is death. Destruction is death. Who caused you to give up your soul to the blood suckers of this world? Who caused you to give up your life to the destroyer of lives?
You will live because there is a fire deep within you that you have forgotten how to feel and now you must feel it. You will live because you allowed fear to create within you a vast desert that is afraid of rain and now you must deal with it. You must deal with the rain. The rain is what waters the plants of your destiny and cause them to grow. The rain nourishes the path of your empathy. You see in color because the rain shows you the rainbow. You will live. You will pass by the dead and hold their hand so they won’t have to hold them themselves. You will live so that you will never have to watch yourself decay again, roam idly through life as if it was the underworld. You will live. And nothing will incite more joy in you than to live, to truly live, to be able to say with confidence that you are alive. And thus, when life leaves your body because it its time, you will not be chained to this world by a life unlived, kicking and screaming on your way out as it was on your way in. You will pass on and live through death. And after that is done, you will live some more. 		080707
...
They call me Truth Momentary Bliss

I kiss the sky and the wind gently strokes my lips and I feel the vastness of existence
And I stand there waiting for something big to happen but I don’t have the patience
And I realize in that instance that the moment I am in is sacred
That I am living with too little heart and too much head
I realize that this moment is perfect and doesn’t need anything extra or grandiose
That the quiet moments are the moments that you need to pay attention to the most
I am always looking for an event to fill the quiet moments in my life without appreciating the moment
Sometimes I think we like the clutter; we view it as a necessary torment
Anything to stop us from looking inside
And we look to the noise as a place to hide
From ourselves
It’s ironic that sometimes the person that we are furthest away from is ourselves
That we place ourselves on the shelves
Along with the many books that we will never read that help to fill out the empty areas
So there is this shelf, full of books, we never really get around to reading, full of stories unread, leaving the most important story unknown
Our own
I have a lot of plans that I want to actualize
But now I realize
Right now is important too
There is nothing particularly interesting going on, nothing particularly new
But its here now
The wind is kissing my lips
And the sweetest juice is tasted in small sips
And I’m sipping and I ain’t tripping that there is nothing going on in the present
Because I am present
I need to get to know me
There so much left for me to discover
Like a person in love getting to know their lover
I can’t be bored with this beautiful mystery left to unravel
This story locked behind the barrier of intimacy
And I must engage it intimately in order to discover its secrets
So I won’t have regrets
This moment was given to me so I could do what I haven’t done yet
Uncover the depths 		080709
...
They call me Truth Self Criticism in Self Loathing

I was thinking that I would tell the world that I don’t care about its rules and “practicality”
That it could take its flaming mass of shit and go fuck itself with it
And I was thinking I would add some fucks and shits here and there just so that it could know that I am serious (because curse words are an indicator of “I’m serious” for a lot of people)
I was seriously contemplating starting each sentence with I don’t care or fuck you
(Something like, “Fuck you world for this mass of shit all over me…I am your human toilet paper)
And I might get some mild amusement that I could sound as angry as possible at an abstract idea such as the world
And then feel a little silly and say:
“But the world’s not the problem, I am. I am using the world as an excuse for being fearful and living in my fear.”
And then it would have felt like I accomplished something at the end, all the while knowing underneath it all that I did nothing
Nothing other that repeat something that I already knew and this was just another attempt of procrastination by pretending that I had just realized that the world sucks and I sucked for living in it like an observer, an object being acted upon
God only knows how many times I’ve said that very thing, while convincing myself that this time the realization would change something
It does change something a little but not significantly
No great big changes
Some small ones
Nothing particularly risky
I am almost 21 and I am thinking that there will be an awakening that I have been talking about for almost 4 years now
So I would throw in some fuck you’s for good measure and feel substantially satisfied with my satisfactory sequence of silly profanity
Somehow convincing myself that getting really angry would definitely change things
Or getting really sad at a life full of niceness
I have been stepped on
And the most I have gotten for my good behavior was a lot of broken promises and a lot of “I’m sorry” and other similar cop outs
I could die a thousand times inside and the only person it would truly matter to is me
And I would take my place among the various other fucktards that make predictions about what will happen tomorrow because they have repeated tomorrows so many times in their todays and acted like they didn’t notice or some really huge event would shake them out of their self induced coma
I can be optimistic
And usually I am
But I have just realized that I have come to the same conclusion every day for the last 4 years and still haven’t done anything significant in that regard instead of getting fucked in the nostril by my moronic optimism turned to “maybe tomorrow”
I know this is a fleeting moment that will soon be replaced with more of that nauseating optimism that has become more of a comfort than a reality
Like a blanket that makes one feel secure
And I wonder how many people were gleefully optimistic about tomorrow
And were so optimistic that they didn’t look both ways before crossing
And got hit by a bus
At least they died optimistic
But they weren’t in that moment
They created a future moment
And didn’t realized that in the current moment there was a really tired bus driver who didn’t see them walk into the road
And while being in the future
It was the present moment that killed them
(It’s not like the following hasn’t occurred to me before)
The only moment is now
It is the only tangible thing we have control over
And the future is a comfort to the fearful who repeat their days like a cancer riding on top a donkey trying to get out of a maze
It is comforting to believe the I will do something someday…and just let today drift by in long moments of optimism
Who really does it today?
Few
Who feels the sweat of paralyzing fear?
Few
Is it me?
Not today
(My obsession with the fact that I am fearful is also disdainful because I believe if I bring enough attention to it, it will eventually change, but attention doesn’t make anything change, it just makes you notice how intricate the prison you created for yourself really is and it actually makes you waste more time)
It is painfully and frightfully annoying how many times I have said this before…this is no new epiphany
I am completely sure that the key is right there and everybody knows it but seldom use it to open the doors
Instead, they stare at the master key and do a whole bunch of self talk about why it is important to use the master key and what would happen if the master key was used and all the reasons why they didn’t use it the past but that now they should use it…and then they don’t. Because they are going to work up the nerve and do it tomorrow
(notice the use of “they” in the above paragraph is also a comfort because I need to create a they so that I don’t feel alone…so why not project my personal feelings on the rest of the world if it makes me feel a little better…I can’t just say its me because then I would be vulnerable and have to stand with the weight of my personal truth on my back…who could really expect a person to hold all of that all by themselves?)
The fact that I am devoting time to saying this is a symptom of my procrastination
But hey, why change something that’s comforting
This is my comfort
Constant repetition of the same thoughts and feelings without actually doing anything, all the while feeling very pleased with myself that I said it
So I’ll just say it to complete this comfort cake: I am living a life in fear and one day I will break free of this fear and be free and live in the moment, where it truly matters. But who knows, whether this will truly happen is up to debate.
What the fuck have I done lately?
I have written an obscenely long poem of self criticism in self loathing (I guess that will be the title of this poem) 		080713
...
They call me Truth I am sitting on the bus
And you are staring…
A little too intensely I might add
So I open my phone and pretend that I am texting somebody
You don’t know that I took out my text messaging 2 months ago because I thought it was a waste of time and money
You don’t need to know
To you, I just appear busy
I don’t like you looking at me

Sometimes I carry a book around so that I could pretend I am reading
Books are good props I think

I frequently talk to myself in public
I learned quickly that this was strange to people
And because of this
I now talk to myself over the phone

I was drawing at my desk when you came over
A logo for a newsletter that I am doing
And you noticed
You came over and started talking about your son
About how he likes to draw and there was this one morning he got up
And while watching cartoon network
He drew this giant picture of something
He is 21 now and he doesn’t draw that much anymore
And I smile because though it may be very interesting that your son draws
I do not know him, or you for that matter
So I really don’t know what to say to you
I tell you I don’t draw that much anymore either

I am walking by and you decide to stare at me
I stare back
You are missing most of your front teeth
I notice that immediately
You continue to stare
I have on my headphones so I see your lips moving but I can’t hear you
You keep saying something
I remove my headphones
You tell me I have a handsome face
And I look at you long enough to say thank you and then I continue walking

I am sitting in your class
During one of your lectures you start talking about your “black” friend
About some funeral you went to with him where people were jumping around and singing loudly
Noticing that I am one of the only black faces in your class you decide to ask me if I have ever been to a black funeral
I stare at you blankly as the class shuffles around in their seats
You say… “Of course you have.”
I continue to look at you blankly
I have never been to a funeral that was the way you described
I forgive your assumption

Eating chicken wings always comes out wrong in restaurants

I made a stereotypical comment about white people
While you were standing a couple feet away
I hope you did not hear me
I would never ask if you did

It was me
Sorry
Upset stomach

I say hi
I ask you if you if you remember me
You don’t

Headphones are a very effective way to tune out the world

Elevators

No…me and your daughter don’t have sex

Oooo…sorry…
Didn’t know you were home 		080721
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