Poems of Pain, of Doubt and of Healing

There are hiccups, still
between you and, my friend.

I felt them the other night,

as imposing as gastric pains themselves;
and though they winked amiably at me,

I couldn’t help but feel the pain
they seemed to birth.

They always do.

And it’s a shame, I thought and think,
wondering at and to myself

—it is a blind man I feel to be incorporating,
but certainly no seer.

—

If my heart feels so strong,

that fire of my spirit
—why the feelings of having evoked
such hostile contempt?

And from those I love the most.

If it is not real,
then can I trust my feelings, really?

If it is their sickness,

It certainly implies mine too;
yet the pain is so personal

that it rips away at me,

like vultures at dead prey.

So I stare at the walls, aghast
—what am I doing?

—

Some impaired, habitual aspect
exhales dreams into the air before my eyes,
of collective praise of my works.

These dreams dissolve effortlessly;
and I see then that the words are right now,
and now, and now.

There is a feud going on inside of my body.

It is between tea and coffee.

I feel the tea to be on top of things
—though it still reeks of coffee.

—

Forgiving, forgiving, forgiving;
yet still waiting to be forgiven.

He condescends, he condescends;

but how is it that I can even begin

to break down these structures?

I am a mole in a small hole,

and having hit clay, I dig slow,
knowing full well that it might be easier

to dig elsewhere.

You look shocked.  Have you never seen a weeping mole?

—

You can be so quick to jump at my abrasions.

Have I not done enough to show that I love you;

that I am you and you me;

that I cannot spiritually or intellectually comprehend
your perception of my ignorance,

my petty words, my presumption?

In here I feel and know that it is not there.

All I can feel in my reactions

is sadness and forgiveness,
the heaviest weight at times
but one that I choose.

Yet I cannot feel your forgiveness returned

and the pain perpetuates.

Leaving all this behind
would bring endless pain;
and I have been informed times over
that this is truth, that the way is this way.

So I cry with no tears, in a dark room alone.

Persist, my beautiful child.
Persist.

The times gone never once meant nothing;
they built what you must see through,
and what you must see through.

The illusion you are subject to,
is the very illusion you are up against.

—

I’ve turned, something is wrong.

My pride has been highlighted, pointed at;
I’ve been attacked.

By my own brother.

And my Dad looks on,
at a dull son, an ill-trained phony of an expert.

At some job.  Some fruitless position.

Yet I cry in disgust and hatred of myself;
I run rampage in a vehicle, smashing everything in my path.

There are my co-workers, gawking uncomprehendingly at me

as everything I see is smashed,
including the job itself.

Tears erupt over and over
as the truck I’m in swerves and squeaks its way
around this smashable world.

I want to destroy it all.

Nothing left for me now.

I see visions of the truck, now a semi trailer,
accelerating off of a concrete precipice
onto a great vast concrete landing below;

It takes trees with it and flames upon impact.

Destruction.

When I wake up I have a song on repeat in my mind,

which I sing aloud.

It is called Sour Grapes.