I’m prone to bouts of anger, short tempered, the overly sensitive type. Writing is a way to make sense of it all. While art is a way in which I can escape the thoughts that haunt me shutting off conscious thought and allowing my hands to guide me.
To exist in matter but be nothing in that of thought a rock can be held can be placed cannot walk cannot think cannot grow although it isn’t nothing I can feel it I can see it and it is nothing in that it is not living it is an object that I can think of that can be withered by a storm that can be changed although it is nothing it cannot die it cannot grow yet I could trip upon it breaking my neck meeting my demise so is it something?
Thanks for reading. -Temperamentally Tina
I’ m not really sure where my mind was going with this poem maybe you can make sense of it? Sometimes I just write when frustrated and just sort of just let the words clutter the space.
(I am a participant in the Amazon Associates Program and any purchases made through affiliate links I may earn a commission on at no additional cost to you.) I used the Surface Go 2 like the one shown above to make my poetry book Can We Sleep Now?
I don’t want to be in debt to this to a thought to a territorial institution to an idea of Country to an idea of people.
I must work to pay out for water for food for electricity for heat for shelter upon land that once was finder keepers then claim for the slaughter now we think we have it right paying for parcels of red.
We have small homes like my own and then we have those that are large paying in as they need taking claim to space their minds ruin us why wouldn’t it ruin another planet another place if they build it and live upon it it’ll die as this one will used up abused it is because they take and they say their sayings “be happy with what you have” isn’t that easy when you have a home chef with no debate about what you can afford for dinner? Then there’s the rest of us.
I just feel like to much is in my head and I can’t cry it all out and I don’t feel like being this human thing that I am I feel it’s disgusting a monstrous condition to be.
I’m always thinking of how to be polite of how to be safe of how not to fuck up and I’m always failing saying words that aren’t proper aren’t helpful never making enough money to buy the food a family needs always losing time never enough to make it all happen always hurting within the brain.
This human thing is killing me this overly politeness yet nobody has it and yet they mind you of your cruelty speaking up honking as you past no sidewalk it doesn’t matter they’re not kind not then.
It could be the weakness in me I feel shame I feel the want to help although the ability is not in me because I feel sickened by this human thing that I am we all must right? Otherwise we wouldn’t classify separate ourselves although how can you truly separate yourself from an entire species human is human any color any size it is human and it is fret and it is spiteful and it is difficult to be this.
Is this reality or is this the fictionalized realm that we’ve projected in our deaths?
A collective unit lives playing on screens and the thoughts we think they’re that of everything that’s why I worry that’s why we go insane because that is sanity realizing reality isn’t this.
I spent every thought trying to understand everything trying to understand the human condition trying to accept social cues trying to notices feelings of others and being conflicted living this reality and I wonder if this is really the truth are people really intelligent animals or is that just what we think?
Reality is it what is happening or is what happening the past?
If you believe in quantum entanglement there is no reality there are just moments intertwine easily erased skimmed over forgotten recreated.
If time isn’t one direction then reality isn’t reality.
I can’t be this environment I can’t take off my skin and let the soul be free to meet its place above in paradise or below in an eternity of torture I can’t be just another name to be praised I’m not I’ve never been the kindness person the prettiest person the perfect person I’m not I haven’t been and I won’t be I’m not troubled by that thought just grounded by debt and the need to pay it buried within my art knowing it isn’t and my words they’re just not quite I’m just this a person with a brain filled of words trying to form a unique thought and slipping within a fear that I cannot I try creating something new right now I can’t I try I can’t be this environment and yet I am it’s poisoning all the policies just let us all be nice polite kind and even that feels worthless because whom determines kindness? Not me I know that I am not a voice of interest I am just a person lost within it all.
Human we try to define it try to separate it try to categorize it try to define it.
Human is human if it breathes if it thinks anatomically it is human.
We separate classify it disassociate aspects as if this human is better than that human any human that breathes any human alive is using resources is conducting mistakes is pushing something someone else into the dirt.
It’s all human it’s all terrible incredible conflicted because that is human.
Hating any to that of color to that of size to that of Country is hating itself because it’s all human me you they them it is we are all human.
There isn’t my best there is just a portion that tries a part that keeps doing things keeps waking in the morning keeps forcing me to sleep keeps forcing me to eat there isn’t my best just a portion that tries.
A portion that combines words hit up against the other portion that hates structure that hates authority that hates any that tells me how and the part that listens stumbling on the grammar the other part that tells me not to fix it that tells me the authority is shit their rules are worthless now.
There isn’t my best there are only parts of me fighting telling me to be nice to be kind to speak politely and the other part that asks who decides what is nice how can you be right when there are voices in every direction how can you be your best when opinions aren’t based within facts?
My brain is drowning within this age of knowledge the information is pulling it weighting it down it cannot come up it’s forgetting the automatic tasks breathe it tells the lungs it had forgotten.
Opinions are spitting about and the facts can’t counter enough blocking a few particles as the others enter my brain is drowning within all the saliva flinging from their mouths I can’t keep up that is an opinion not fact I can’t justify right and wrong based off a feeling.
Overwhelmed my brain drowns it can’t quit hands pulling at it prodding it responsibilities keep it awake keep it thinking keep it fearing pulling it out of the water for the only bits that matter are the words of the ones I love.