The Past, Present, and It Repeats.

Dec 22, 2007 - 13:02 PM PST

what do you write about, when you write with the breadlife of your soul
..yet you are scared to feel?
and even in knowing that you are scared
it admits that you do have the capability of feeling..
but you do not want to feel.
feeling has become weakness.
feeling has become a shaking moaning treacherous disease.

i do not want to return to what i was.
i see that this right now is not perfect,
but it is morbidly stronger than what i was.
and i deny myself such luxuries;
such pleasures:
i am not able to fluidly pour out my soul anymore.
there is nothing,
but the anesthetic taste in my mouth.
the fake plastic sensation that envelopes my body.
i am not real.

perhaps though this is who i was all along:
a deceptive,
manipulative,
curious creature.
that only wants the warmth of love.
of body and chest against self.

i love the poetry i use to write.
though most of it is devastatingly sad
i see now what others saw.
and i question how i was so naive.
but i was in pain.
i ached.
i burned.
i longed for desire.
i understood nothing but melancholy.
i believed nothing but the derision of practicality.
i had loved!
loved with my bare essence!
left nothing for myself.
always said yes!
always nodded my head and went along with the lack of reason!
i was a small tawdry.
who clung to words as though they were my every breath.
..i was such a child.
a fragile piece of equipment that was used harshly.
a shattered piece of ceramic.
an intermittent excuse for a crippled adolescent.

in some ways though
i am returning to what i was when i wanted to be what i am now.
i enjoy the solitude.
i do not get antsy with the need to be around people
i am over that withdraw from myself.
though company is enjoyable
i am just glad to not be as exuberantly needy
and at the same time sad
i feel better
and yet i dont feel
..strange, isnt it?