Sunday, March 31, 2013

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.

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.


When I wake up I have a song on repeat in my mind,
which I sing aloud.

It is called Sour Grapes.

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