the siren song

so it is 3 am

and again my doubts sing their siren songs

songs of my failures

of other’s successes

of giving up and giving in

and these words rush into my ears

racing to see who can win and push me farther away from my goals

can push me to the brink

to the very edge

but they will not be satisfied

i turn away

and like Odysseus tie myself to the mast

and r e s i s t the empty temptations

a stream of consciousness

it festers inside me like a slab of meat left out for days

where it rots and rots and rots

basically telling the world that “yes, i am vile and disgusting, what’s it to you?’

It is its ‘F U’ to the world that abandoned it, that left it there when it was raw and vulnerable, soft to the environment and yearning for anyone’s touch

when the maggots come round to feed on its juices, it finds pleasure

so much pleasure in being touched being gnawed

being intruded by the wiggling bodies of the white able-bodied creatures

but

it is still lonely even as the flies are birthed in it and continue to use it as a husk to grow and mature

the slab of meat that is broken down tendon by tendon is barely what it was

the vibrant red that it used to have is gone and what is left is what is akin to what is left on the bottom of your shoe after you traipse around in the mud

it is just a brown sludge of despair and loneliness and anger and sadness

just so much sadness that it cannot breathe

that it hurts to breathe

hurts hurts hurts

Goals.

I begin.

My shoes are untied.

I stop.

I begin.

The gun misfired.

I stop.

I begin.

the sky turns gray and water spills.

I stop.

I begin.

That fear of failure grips my chest.

I stop.

I begin.

I ask, “What’s the point? Why am I doing this?”

I stop.

I begin.

Everyone is staring at me,

eyes measure my worth,

sweat beads on my forehead and-

-I run without stopping.

here we go again

We’ve been here before.

Saying we will,

planning for the next day,

and the next, convincing yourself that yes,

you will get better,

you will pick up that pencil,

or pick up that calculator,

or pick up that weight.

You ignore the voice in the back of your head,

warning you,

telling you that the proverbial cliff is lying before you and not to step any further.

And you feign understanding,

but you choose instead to make a running start and leap off that cliff.

You spread your arms, feel the wind against your skin for a few blissful seconds,

and then you’re plummeting down fast-too fast for any limp human body to experience.

And just before the ground overtakes your vision,

you realize that you are making the same mistake–procrastinating.

Again.

D-E-T-E-R-M-I-N-E-D

My feet pin against the ground,

every step sparking pain deep in my core.

My fingers are trembling,

my legs are quivering,

holding a conscious of their own,

reminding me that I am human and I have flaws.

I can break.

 

-but at the same time,

 

I can rise up again,

I can defeat all my demons with blood on my hands and gashes on my arms.

I’m not a supernova,

or a hurricane,

or a burst of genius here to change the world.

I’m here to fail.

I’m here to break.

I’m here to collapse.

I’m here to juxtapose my mannerisms and stutter an

infinite number of times

in a sentence.

I’m t i r e d.

But I’m waking up.

 

this sweet poison

I clutch the green fibers in my hands.

They are strong, endurable, and sparkle in the sunlight.

They whisper with the wind as it gusts past them,

they cling themselves to the ground with every ounce of their beings,

they expand and span across the land before me,

daring me to look away.

(I am drunk on them.)

But something is wrong.

I cannot smell the rich aroma of dirt floating up towards me,

I cannot see the shiny, black backs of ants,

nor the persistence of weeds itching to rise over the blades of grass.

(There are no flaws.)

There is only the cold blades that cut my hands the harder that I clutch them,

who dig into my palms,

and pull me into its falsifying mirage.

And when I look at what is real, on the other side of my minds eye, I choose not to leave.

(I give in.)

From A to Z

I sit in the back of the room,

among the shadows in the corners that no one even bothers to glance at,

and I see more than I can ever see,

I see stars in the ceiling,

I see oceans pooling at my feet,

and I see flowers blooming in the walls and among the curtains.

There is no need for an interlude, or encore, or exposition,

there is no beginning, start, nor end,

there is just the infinite mass of one moment in time held in my memory for only me to see.

I replay it over and over in my mind’s eye like a movie held close to my heart,

that is past its box office run but still needs to play in order for my own story to go on.

I have my popcorn, I have my Coca-Cola, I have my phone turned off and placed deep in my back pocket.

I am ready.