How did my soul get trapped?

What's happening to me? I'm trying so hard. I'm trying so hard. I'm trying so hard. And I'm trying so hard. Nothing's coming out, though. I'm just a child with scissors trimming at the components of my life, naively operating, pretending to have the skill of a surgeon. It's just a reduction of all of the extensions of me- a severing of unneeded appendages. A severing of unneeded people.

I have learned to control my hopes and in turn manage my disappointments.

While it holds true that anything is possible in a world of infinite possibilities,to be practical you have to accept this as a pessimistic statement rather than one of optimism. People like to entertain this as a thought of opportunity instead of exploring the other side of it- the side that explores the anomaly of the world essentially shitting on you (often) with no explanation. Or even with an explanation. You see, you have to understand that there is absolutely no one that owes you anything. If you believe otherwise I have to inform you that you are ignorant. But you... you.... you are nothing. You're a nothing plagued by rules laid out by other nothings. Plagued by rules laid out by your own psyche.

Ungratefulness. The problem I have with people complaining about others being ungrateful is that I can't help but pin the person as extremely selfish. Deductive reasoning can only point to the fact that whatever you did for that person that you thought they should be grateful for was really only done for your ego. Whatever goodness you thought you were achieving has no validity in my eyes because it was done out of a need for gratification. I'm certainly not going to agree that you deserved the edification you think you do.

The perception of what is edifying is another flaw in this I-deserve-the-world-on-a-silver-platter manner of thinking. Modern culture has splashed acid in our eyes and confused us about beauty. They've made beauty a fixed idea by defining it as 1) tangible 2) elite and 3) removed from emotion. Why is this relevant?Your edification is getting to participate in something that is beautiful, that's fucking why. The exchange itself was beautiful. The human to human connection was beautiful. Stop giving a fuck if someone thanks you or not because that situation was way more complex than you can conceive (or are willing to, you simple minded twit.) Even if you are too far removed from understanding the wonder in EVERYTHING, I'm not forgiving the action because genuineness is not too much to ask for.

Oh, and beautiful things. The hilarity of it all is that I can never find examples of this in the institution that man-kind has created. Beauty is very much connected to spirituality and its appreciation can only spawn from identification of this emotional engagement and an analytic understanding of this connection. And mostly, I believe that beauty is derived from mysticism. You know what's beautiful? You are. Your consciousness pulsating through your body. It's an ignored phenomena that I can't get over, one that makes me a little too aware of the body I'm locked in, and a little too aware of the person beside me. And how? How did my soul get trapped?

And for all this, I'm whittling all the bullshit out. I just can't stand the selfish need of everyone for me. This is why people are ungrateful; this is why I'm ungrateful. I'm ungrateful because I already know that everything that you are doing for me is for you. While I'm polite and probably will thank you, I can't possibly always mean it, which is why I have to detach from you. It's not fair to me to have to be burdened with guilt of insincerity due to your insincerity. (It's usually a choice between impoliteness or insincerity.)

Meekness. Humility. Sincerity. These are the things you should be seeking, you self-entitled scumbag.

A rewrite of "Compost for your garden."

Compost for your garden.

repulsive words spewing onto
your paining grimace.
a lip sneer and your eyes are full of disappointment.
but my silence drives you mad.
jaws tense and teeth clank.
glassy sphere's of emotion 

                                      what's wrong with you?

Eyes that can't see; 

ears that can't hear



I read your story

I've read your story

I write your story 

I've written your story

With a master stroke 

With rain drops and rain drips

and melodies and harmonies

and pliés and pirouettes

and the lacing of our fingers

what do you desire?

unattachment

attachment
system upload

system download
failure to complete task

system failure
reboot

bubbly words

bubbly wounds

pulsation 

fever 

fervor

hate

indifference

should this end this night

did this end this night

several nights end

sunrise, an eternal flame

deep yearning of the compass

yearning for direction,

detection 
lust, love and other allures

buried with the candles of our fathers

and silence.

if forever were a moment 

i would dream

i did dream 

have dreamed

in vain and vanity

under the pale moon

and rigid stars of fallacy and 

ignorance and helplessness

and shame

empowerment and power

to the secret master

an ancient bitterness

ballroom

collar bone

diagram

scam 

But run
infected brain

acidic stomach

all the knowledge of 

worlds unknown

security of the tombs

of the salts of barren lands

a plea
for boundaries and warnings

and fragility of porcelain

the fair hair of a tiger lily; 

100 strokes into the brims of the fire

I'm sorry. I should have said the right thing.

Is today the day I die?

Under any scrutiny I lend myself to the simple thoughts of an animal. It's not that intellect surpasses my line of thinking, but a general disinterest in anything with the inclusion of ideas with academic merit, has caused complete collapse of my once diligent brain. Things don't engage because things can't engage because I can't be engaged. I can find no importance in the interaction because it's all imaginary. All the things that people ask me to partake in are made up by them and people in general. It's all so exhausting. And I can't do it.

I can't be an intellect for the mere fact of being an intellect. Maybe that means I'm not smart. On all the levels of my consciousness that aren't overtaken with vanity and insecurity, I can accept that with minimal disappointment. My skill is not intellect, but learning. 

Which is why the things that compel me to engage are not the same bullshit things that spark the normal persons appeal, but rather things of infinite mystery. Things that are not merely illusions, but stimulate my mind to know beauty. 

And I don't get that. Unless the sweet scent of honeysuckles is seducing me, or the the songs of the robin are entrancing me, or the the wind is beckoning me to come fly away. As the moist dirt grips at the pads of my feet I can feel the importance of just being, and all of it's magnificence. How important it is that of all of the probable possibilities, I am experiencing this now. That's got to mean something.

The Sinner's Woe

I partook of the apple

and it was just as they say

The sweet drips tracing my lips

remind me of loneliness

For a moment I knew time

I knew the world and I knew God

But now, in the core of dry bones

all I know is what was

A starry, starry night

a pallet painted blue and grey

I am the latter.

You're either blending in with the people or the scenery.

Petals and Pebbles

Current time: 5:28
The evening hours had summoned bubbly white clouds with grey under bellies that scurried across the bright blue sky, sucking the sun's warmth away with them. A chilly breeze grazed across the parking deck, raising goosebumps on my pale legs as I entered the Union Bus Station. I nonchalantly made my way to the column with monitors mounted on it so I could check the next departure of the bus from the station.
6:00.
With the news of my 30 minute wait, the green, rubber covered metal bench beckoned me and I hazily obeyed. I pulled a book out of my purse, opening it to a half-read page, and placed it on my crossed legs as I began to engross myself back into the story.  But in that same moment, the lanky, unshaven older man who had perched on the bench beside me decided to engage me.
"Do you take classes here?" he said in almost a whisper. His glasses created the illusion that his topaz eyes were a little too small and beady.
"Yes, yes I do," I readily answered.
"Oh, so what year are you?"
"I'm a sophomore. Are you taking classes?"
"Oh, no. Not anymore. I teach, actually. I teach percussion, mainly the snare," the old man declared with a small sense of pride.
I smiled my friendly smile, stretching my lips out to reveal my whole top row of teeth, but even I could see that it was laced with only half sincerity. The old man mirrored my grin with no lag in his response and extended his leathery hand to me.
"I'm Rob," he said, not breaking eye contact.
"I'm Mariah. Nice to meet you," I replied, placing my meaty hand in his for a firm shake.