Thy Will Won’t Be Done.

My wrinkled face
is beginning to waste,
limp body, still hung,
on a squeaky clothesline,
that is tightly confined,
beneath a given thumb,
any part attached to me,
repeatedly gone numb,
neurons firing incorrectly,
missed the target,
subsequently,
my brain feels like,
a bowl of old pond-scum,
the day and night,
continue to come,
Hell or high water,
thy will won’t be done.

Right.

So, I guess I am NOT safe to post my own stuff on my own blog, out of fear of triggering some psychopathic stranger across the country with MY OWN PERSONAL content…people are truly despicable, aren’t they?

When my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer, but still somewhat herself, and I decided that I was committing myself to her treatment schedule with her, I was in the process of “getting to know” this person from afar. This person and I had, up until that time, been quite compatible for the most part; we had been growing rather close and spending at least 3 hours on the phone each day. This person had begun to show some alarming behavior just prior to mom’s diagnosis i.e. openly planning to move to my state, getting my name tattooed on his arm, and other things like asking me the question of:

 

“What would you do if I just showed up on your doorstep one day?”

 

And, opting to be overly butt-hurt when I responded negatively to such a disturbing query, to boot. I don’t think he ever quite grasped why such a question made me squirm, either, somehow. He began interrogating me regularly, based on old posts he would obsess over on my blog; he began to constantly swing between hating me and calling me horribly inappropriate names and being madly in love with me and promising he’d love me no matter what I was going through. Then, my mom was diagnosed.

This is the same person who called me “staggeringly cruel” for opting to focus on my mother’s health issues, in his trademark passive-aggressive way, and then back-peddling all over when he realized how fucking out of line it was to do such a lowly thing.

For me, it all died right then and there.

During the initial days of the diagnosis, amid the shock and associated dysfunction on my part, this person found it necessary to blow up my phone with cruel and hateful messages regularly, in spite of his awareness of what I was dealing with. The selfishness and cruelty of this person shone through brightly, to put it simply. Everything and anything that had come before between us went out the window.

He continued to comb through my entire blog daily, as a creeper without ever liking anything or letting his presence be seen anymore; he literally wiped clean every single sentiment he ever dedicated to me prior to that, too, like a light switch. He obviously wasn’t able to see beyond his own neediness and immaturity to NOT internalize the things that were happening in my life. People can be so unbelievably blind when it serves them to be.

Next, someone pointed out to me how this person was coat-tailing my readers, I didn’t and still don’t give two fucks about this. Then, someone else talked to me about the new direction that this person online presence had taken (a charity case), and I still didn’t really care too much – – – it’s none of my business what this person does. Go for it, dude. Right? Wrong.

Yesterday, I posted a poem that I wrote several months ago about someone I know in real time (many of my long-time readers can likely piece together who it might have been written about, I’m sure). I can’t write anything fresh at present due to my total lack of attention span (note: all the recent re-blogs in place of newly written content). Somehow this person completely took my post out of context and once again mastered the art of making MY PERSONAL CONTENT all about HIM, somehow; he then proceeded to totaling attacking me and striking out at me (totally out of nowhere in my own perception, mind you). Basically, just more of this person behaving like the buffoon that he so obviously is at heart. He again chose the route of sending me paragraph-long text messages insulting me in every possible fashion and acting all holier than thou.  He did this knowing that I was sitting in the fucking ICU with my mother as she circles the drain (he even said, “don’t try to give me a guilt trip…” when I reminded him of my location and circumstances. His accusations and self-projections made absolutely NO SENSE AT ALL. Why would I write a poem about him at all, much less – right now, so many weeks after my feelings changed for him? If I wanted to talk shit about him and what he’s doing, why would I start now? Why wouldn’t I have done it already like when his cruelty still stung? Right, I wouldn’t. I have REAL problems to deal with. Why should I care if he wants to be sponsored by some anonymous strangers online? For the record, and for ALL to read: I DON’T.

 

Chopping Block.

Once I,bowed,
my head down,
and I,
at long last
really looked…
through and passed,
all the rest,
at the ground,
my body’s distress,
blocked out,
the noisy sounds,
the hive buzzing,
crowds humming
shouts coming,
from all around,
head swimming,
thoughts shut-down…
the dark of night,
the flash of light,
forcing open eyes,
I was surprised,
at myself,
with what my eyes found,
a shock,
still felt,
within me now,
heads scatter the ground,
trumpets blaring,
The chopping block,
once a daring,
reddish-brown
its surface wiped down,
all scrubbed off,
blood-free and clean,
of the guillotine,
…somehow.

Staggering Cruelty.

Yesterday, I was called “so cruel” as to be “staggering to the mind” of the person who chose to voice such a mean-spirited thing to me right now. I was called cruel because I carved out the next few days completely for my mom; so that I will not have to worry about juggling or racing around to fulfill commitments I’ve made to anybody besides my mom. Upon being called cruel in this context yesterday, I realized something quite clearly:

If being with my mother as she lives out the end of her life equates to my own cruelty towards a single person other than her, so fucking be it. I have dread this circumstance for my entire existence, and it has finally come to meet me, to take her away forever. I may be a self-absorbed bitch for ignoring any and all of my other connections to other human beings at present, but that’s the way my crumbly cookie has fallen apart

I am 110% pre-occupied with my mom’s situation, and if that is abnormal – – – shoot me; and then, go fuck yourself real good.

*Apply Puking Sound Here*.

There’s so much that I’ve wanted to,

say in earnestness to you,

along the lines of all your lies,

I’d like add some truth of mine;

Throughout everything, I have been,

a loyal and trustworthy friend,

I didn’t fuck with your reputation,

should’ve put you on blast way back then;

Instead I held my tongue through all,

despite the hurt and opened scars,

I tried to deny who you really are,

I cried out my eyes when I finally saw;

and you thought that time would fade away,

the colors you’ve sported so flamboyantly,

yet, they are still vividly singed in my eyes,

along with the piles of your garbage and lies;

just because you are too shallow and small,

to admit  your despicable ways, after all,

you assume that everyone you’ve burned,

will forget the lessons you’ve made them learn,

and perhaps most of your friends don’t recall,

how you’ve fucked them over – one and all,

perhaps they are comfortable cushioning your fall,

and carrying you so you won’t have to crawl;

but I am no longer a true friend of yours,

though I will play nice and stay on all fours,

let you keep on fucking a hole in the floor,

            things will come back on you, you will get yours.

Roaming the Hallways.

 

These are things:
hidden meanings;
soundly maintaining
in between –
the likes of you and me.

The same goes for anybody:
structured similarly;
that functions remotely
close to –
any likeness to Yours Truly;

It becomes impossible to see:
your side of anything;
my heart does not hear or speak
the obsolete –
language of a Hollow King.

I ride lost in loss and strife:
the chaos of a star’s dying light;
the haunting of a dead man’s life
but why –
must you roam the hallways at night?

When I cannot comprehend:
the commands that your faded voice sends;
across the emptiness of the long-forsaken
echoes within –
the spaces and places of the ill-spirited gardens.

I cannot answer then:
a single one of a hundred questions;
the dialect has tumbled over the edge of extinction
you win –
but a world where you’re happy is hard to imagine.

The Hand That Counts.

I can still
recognize,
a sweaty face –
with
guilty eyes;
a selfless smile –
that made me
realize,
that the truth
is still a lie.
The March of Time
goes down a rigid line;
the drum that reverberates,
it doesn’t stop on a dime;
the vibration rolls
along tidal waves
through all matter
of time and space;
the skies that hold
the secret fate,
of the self-worshipping
human race –
have been foreseen,
to inevitably
betray;
The Ties that Bind
unravel and unwind,
to be once again tied
to our heavy hearted
changing tides.
Marching in circles
around the confines of
a broken
clock face,
must keep up to an impossible pace –
the hand that takes, the hand that shakes,
the hand that counts the sentiment faked.