Chaotic Episode - Poem

Would I feel better if I get everything. It appears and grows as weeds. Perhaps when I get everything, I wont feel anything. What I want that is. But that is an issue for me to resolve. I cant blame it all on a lock of getting it. No, its not control. I am growing angry. It’s a freedom. But is that broad. Lost speaker in time. If I died right now would my best piece really be some cheap fiction. That cant be my story. Is it just participating that matters. But does that make it easier. How do I get any. Absolutely not. The notion of being overlooked by what is even waiting beyond that final ribbon crossing. Fuck. No more space. My lips are stung. Wasps invisible hover haunting me. Nettles beneath the skin that tell me I really am unwell. For now. When does enough become enough for me. Do I need that recognition. Does it make me a worse man or just base urges and freedom fixations. Misery. Food. Anymore. Worst moments. Here. Why do strong men lead. I only brought my red pen for this one. Never show your weaknesses at the risk of being harmed. The wolves will come. Does desire make me a weak man. Or does it merely become humanities muscle. Torn pages aren’t getting fixed. Who destroyed my notes. Who laid siege to my journal? Impatient. Devalued. Resolve it. Can a broken mind really be fixed? Man? Or am I really just another product of instinct. But the ink spreads the thoughts like butter, regardless. When you can’t smile, every situation feels darker. Duller. As thought you had something normalising taken away from you. Damages to a smile makes interaction with life shallow. Through lies and silence still finds me at my weakest. I don’t feel particularly young or full of life anymore. Maybe the date of our deaths approaches like the rotting snatches food from our empty shelves. Does a writer without recognition simply become a ghost. Little by little the weight in my chest ebbs and flows. But I made it and I am growing impatient again. I cant shake the idea it would never be enough. Maybe that’s the crux of greed. Greed. That word keeps seeking me out for a fight. Will I always have a lord. Money. Lust. Ego. Desperation for recognition. Fuck. Ego is the enemy. Maybe you will never get past that urge to be valued. Seen. You meant seen. Not for money, but control. Maybe? You will never be satisfied. One way or another. The pen became the alter that I will become trapped. My alter. Simply made of stone and doubtful thoughts. But doubt dies with the rest of it. Look it all in the eye and grab hold of something real, buried. But it’s there. I turned off the music eventually. Can’t hide behind, or between, ear muffs forever. That thought just found me again. Am I talented or just one of many millions who they think they have a gift with words. Maybe I learned that idea growing up, maybe that did this. Set me up to permanently chase some ghost of ethereal achievement. Maybe. But that might also be an easy cop out. Should I ever release THIS. Just let THIS loose into the world. Do writers release everything they write. Like could my long buried suicide note ever be trusted out there in the cold light of the dying sun. Amongst the fucking creatures that would judge me for it. It would probably just hurt everyone. Or is that idea self-centred. Maybe. Did I ever really make a connection beyond you? I don’t think so. Nobody saw the best and the worst like you did. My ears are hurting from hiding between the headphones. Deserved pain for being typical to my own weaknesses. Could it actually be arrogance. Do I feel I am owed something. Perhaps I am owed something. We see worse people than me get to be loved, recognised, praised, fucked, dreamt of and idolised. Maybe that’s the anger, I felt it just then in my rib cage stirring. You dream of being simple and wanting for nothing but is that goal even tangible. Can you grasp your final form before it disappears with the dreams of your childhood. Infantile fixations on the perfect existence that you believe you deserve above so many millions more. Maybe you do. Maybe it is possible. But not right now. Not while you have a job to do. Write and stay as stone to the rains. The heating flicking on and off is pissing me off. What do I want. Does all this pent up rage come from boredom. I have been standing still for too long now. Lack of action or am I a slave to the shittiest of base human impulses that I swore to conquer. Maybe the bible got it right about the sins. Lust and greed are the big ones. The relevant ones. Maybe I am being lustful when in reality it’s just not acceptable to crave the immediate and deviant that often. Pride, another sin. Obviously one I am guilty of if I get hurt whenever I don’t get something I desire. Can’t be criticised for the sins of sloth. I am always doing something. Broken knees for a fucking company that never cared. It can’t be sloth. Maybe. The crows are outside. Chattering. I bet they don’t falter to these stresses. Something oddly unfair about being human. There it is. Self-pity, you just saw it didn’t you. What more do you need. You have money, enough to never worry. You have love. Who are you to self-pity, drinking down the comforting mug of weak men’s excuses. What are you looking for? The crows fly away. Stone to the rains.