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.
WE are unsolvable because humans are not facts. Our databases are stored of opinions cluttered of numbers we consider statistics. Compiled to skew perception because theCOLLECTor determines from whom what is collected. We are NOt FACTS. These minds of ours alter their data making it possible to stay on and not shut down. We are not TRUTH, we are not honest because humans live within their illusions. Behind screens sharing perfect collections of images in which tears are only shed when sympathy is to be gained. Humans are not truth they seek compassion and they give it to look human. I laugh at the irony because being human is a kind of animal cruelty that belongs to only us. To only that animal that is human and whichever choices we make we haven’t been able to bleed it out of us because that cruelty has been growing within us at the birth of intellectual thought.
We can repair stitch the skin use glue when needed staples that disintegrate as the wound heals but the blade it’ll reach different parts different places the skin pigmentation lighter or darker it doesn’t matter because living things bleed and humans die for their ideals because strength has been miscommunicated for centuries and no matter the process we always fail to live within restraint.
There is this place in which I can feel my body embracing the pavement and the smell of iron as my blood drips leaving a corpse for another to find this place it’s very real this place I’m speaking of in which we spend our limited time here preparing for a place we can’t see can’t feel can’t hear and in preparation of that mythical place we abandon our future kin leaving them a place that soon will be unlivable because we’re worried about an eternal afterlife rather than fixing rather than cleaning rather than saving no it’s not the soul that needs help it’s the very real bodies dying about us as we stand about saying “look up our protector up there is always right here with us.”
The deception in your words I may decipher in which what you meant is I have no time to help unless it’s noticed and broadcasted and it is me that is not at fault for I am only me and I am the victim in which I must speak and say the victim is all and is no one all at once because it’s impossible to decipher opinion and fact they don’t correlate and rather lets just say we all could try and admit and mend and help and solve together and when we cannot we say we’ll try and we’ll try and we’ll leave leaving behind our journals hoping the next generation can solve what we haven’t lets just hope there is another and I will say I will try I will and I will more and what I cannot I’ll apologize as I leave this place for that’s all any of us can give.
I’m not living for what may happen I live for what is happening this life right now here in this place in which I can think in which I can feel in which I can hear in which I can smell I can see I live here and even if I lost my senses I would know this place is and always has been real.
Rather than preparing for after I choose to make the healthier choices for this life to be longer lasting and I don’t allow myself burdened by an infinite dictator because if it is true there is life after this count me out if it’s ruled by a so called creator that created us in their image I say no thanks I’ll never be ready to commit to that for in death I rather believe there is no one left to answer to.
I’m going to die You’re going to die He’s going to die She’s going to die They’re going o die It’s going to die He/She/Them/They They’re all going to die… Till then can we just live?
No… We have opinions to give ideals to push thoughts to give thoughts to take.
Living without fight would be an impossibility when each and every is fighting the war of right.
My questions are these.. In death who is the victor? Does it matter then, when you can’t think, you can’t feel? Does it mater then, when we’re all dead? Because our ideals became our life and living became agony for all because none of us is right for all of us. Will it matter then, to be the most right, when all is dead?
The most painful thought that clutches my brain digging in and replacing hope is that the evil we evade is all of us.
There is no group we could confine within cells or burry within our soils to vanish the evil and live within purity because humans are animals.
It’s not the rich alone it’s not ethnicity it’s not privilege it’s not poor it’s not a country the evil it lives within all and you can’t separate it out because you might just be confining yourself within a hole.
It’s everyone it’s all of it all the time because our stress our wants to measure up obliterate our humility because we want the best to be the best to be the right not the wrong and we will fight to be it because destroying the opposing allows us to create a perception in which our right is every bodies because we’ve killed the rest and that is not a place I’d ever accept so bury me with any.
I’m real because I can be I have nothing to hide no appearances to keep up I’m just a nameless person because I am not known in a world of somebodies writing off words letting go of thoughts existing here the same as you the somebodies and all the others forgotten names trying to exist knowing they exist and wondering is that enough? YES and no depending on your own worth and what defines success because it’s not a definitive it’s a choice a thought that changes between me and to you because we get to decide what success is and what defines us as we are and no you do not have to listen to pop culture and the biggest hits on the radio to determine what happy is because sometimes it’s the same and other times it isn’t for being human means we get to think and we get to determine and we get to find us and that is different between person to person.
I want to be patient able to calm my mind listen not react a supportive body not a pile of spaghetti to slip upon when walking through the kitchen you’re holding a knife in your hand gashing bits of skin as you slip I don’t want to be torment I want to be a happy feeling not the coldest part of a room goosebumps the moment I enter I don’t want to be the cause of shivers I want to be supportive in which I must learn to calm and mellow through what I let be stress words that are only words debt that compiles and turns into others wealth it is and rather than be the misery I’ll just let it shed dusting it within a pile and sealing it within a bag to leave for the trucks because this is humanity and I am human.
They crawl they get in they get out nestling within the dirt.
The feeling feeders expand, growing larger they want a release they want to speak and me listen and I can’t because I am not selfless.
In the dirt they multiply eating the neighborhood taking it in letting it out in their squeaks they want us to listen their stories exhausting and I’m tired already.
I don’t need to listen hear the words I’ve spoken I know not always politely I make mistakes I speak irrationally and fast I don’t want to remember my faults in each conversation so please eat it and let it out somewhere else because I know my faults I do just let me rest.
I understand your lonely others must be alone in their homes literally or metaphorically although I am not I’m exhausted with plenty of human interaction and when I get a chance I want to be alone those critters in the dirt just take a rest and when you wake try something new.
Thanks for reading. -Temperamentally Tina
A shovel in the hole throwing about the excess trying to make it larger digging about they’re going to find it.
Pacing in the cell awaiting the final call it’s their choice waiting and pacing.
A few holes air, there is air breathe quick slow it down just a tick.
All shook up their hands moving fast a headache setting in the pain is breaking this small place suffocating.
The lid is falling I dodge a hit upon my head down I am I begin to smell it ready to feed hunger.
I eat and in that thought I lay down as if I must accept this is home the bottom of this jar I die now or I die later free is neither.
For the prompt of this poem I was picturing what it’d be like to be an insect trapped in a jar. Thanks for reading. -Temperamentally Tina