Self help books are getting aggressive. Just saw one called “Unf**k Yourself”. That doesn’t even make sense. Is it a book for people who get told off a lot? The other one was called “Hardcore Self Help: F**k Anxiety”, which seems a bit intense for anyone with anxiety issues. Maybe I’ll write a self help book called “F**k You and Your P**sy As* Depression”. It would save lives…. or result in a string of suicides. These things are coin toss.
P.S. I am Batman!
Don’t “like” my writing if you’re just baiting for followers. If you actually read any of it, then go ahead. Either way, I’m not here to read blog posts or writing by others. Never really have, aside from a few exceptions. I don’t like to taint my creative process with outside influence. Some emulate others and call that inspiration, but I disagree. Not to say I’m unique, but nobody taught me to write poetry. It’s just something I started doing in the sixth grade for no real reason. I just like rhyme and rhythm.
Though I’m here in spirit, my body has decayed
Consumed by my indifference toward my squalid state
Every joint aches, pains so damned persistent
Been so long since I tried
I no longer know my limits
Time is finite
Relativity can attest
It only slips away
Yes, time is only spent
Unlike the serpent, Money
You can earn that back
But it isn’t worth your time
Nothing is, at that
Perhaps I’m coming into focus?
I’ve never felt so clear, though lacking any purpose
Blood drank dry, split like the carcass of a hare
The hunter takes their prize
We’re all rabbits running scared
From the clever fox, called “Life”
Body twisted and contorted
This sordid flower begins to wilt
Years of malnutrition, living only off stout will
Still, roots running deep
A funny thing for one so static
Forever held in place, it seems
No beam of light can penetrate
None venerate its’ beauty
None will look for it in Spring
It took quite a while, getting to this point
The first page of my book
Its’ contents still unknown
I’ve considered poems, with thoughts in-between
Offers of insight, if any can be gleaned
It seems my memory is short
Each piece a time and place, destined to distort
More with the former’s passing
Eventually becoming twisted….
As if seen through coloured glass
Something keeps me coming back
I lack the will to quit
Paradoxical by nature
My thoughts always conflict
If I just walk away, can I reclaim this wasted time?
Failure calls back to me
“I am yours and you are mine”
I put the pen to page
Back for a taste of failure
Again, again, again….