Stuck on,
Wash, rinse, repeat,
Stuck on,
Reading the same page.
Stuck on,
Making the same mistakes,
Stuck on,
Being stuck on.
Not a Normal Zoo
Tremulous chattering in the van like we’re beetles in heat. Something like that anyways. Its fucking cold but it sure beats being on the street. Time to start on one of those commitments. That thing where we write everyday, try to spew out the content that drives each of us bonkers, makes us sicker and crazier than anything else upstairs no matter how much we beg and pray.
There’s joy to be found here. In the way that our interactions have changed. Its subtle, so very subtle, but present and there’s no denying the pleasure it brings. Instead of side eyed looks they come straight on, a touch of passion, and I’m even back to singing terribly constructed spasmodic morning songs.
Like a drunk man who’s way too sober christening each second with noise to blot out all of the thoughts before they come screaming to his room begging for their toys.
But it’s all got a rhythm to it. A banging irrational rhythm.
From the awkward sex making in the cubbyhole cavern with blanket draped window we reside, to the front seats arm deep in residue from yesterday which resides. You’d think we were animals, but that’s far from true. The hallucinations today have me convinced that we’re clearly not part of the normal zoo.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Summertime Delusion – A Letter
Despite every frothing nuanced prayer that initializes my psyche, the distorted grimace of broken promises and lost understanding, perched atop a wistful hallucination, a misted and cloaked recollection of the past run doggedly down by the present pretense.
If ever there was something akin more to the listless and forgiving welcome end of the fight with the embittered arrogance of senses beguiled by a world at odds with the wasted conviction that drives each of us to draw determined store each day.
I don’t want to see that shit.
It’s going to remain a figment of some darker god’s plaything.
Poor darlings chained up until the scent of dread and hate and playful desperation and longing and weakness and fear cum resignation. Soaks the fingers loose from greased clasp on steel.
Fucking breaking would be the sweetest of releases.
To find forgiveness in deceit , blunder through fields of denial, laden and swollen deep with the putrid rage at self and world.
Just take one more day beautiful.
Please.
I’m begging through this weakness and shame of my indignant mistrust.
Please.
Please show me I’m crazy enough that I won’t die in my hate lust that these fears have spawned.
I’ll be your puppy faced joker.
Your sterile cat of misapprehension.
Feed me your sin to mirror mine and kiss these wounds to sew them shut against a clot of your mercy. The sheen was lost so long ago and hasn’t been a clean reflection since you woke me to a world of normalcy bathed in the crackled genius of the wounded.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Errr….and then words….
Composite a spectrum,
Diagnosis alternative nostrum,
Qualifier doctrine placenta,
I’d call it a kid if only it were one.
So, birthplace be lobed,
Rounded and gray matter globed,
Because words man,
Them is the things that I once loved.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Greased Shadows
It’s like a greased shadow that always flits away at the moment of its realization. From the opposite side of the equation it must be infuriating to exist as a singular potential point of reality. To be there, not there, pulled away at the last second like a word that gets lost on the way out from lips.
I’ve let myself destroy so much of myself with this obsessive tracking and back tracking to find a semblance of reality, to make a change now seems not futile but like capitulating. Facts are facts though, and today I find myself more miserable for the fears and fascination that I ruminate on sober or half cooked hazes.
For all my certainty that I can find a conclusion that somehow rectifies the damage that I must have caused and that I’ve jailed myself inside mentally and emotionally no for more than a year I’m no closer to finding peace than ever in this fucking quest to verify my own sanity or its absence.
It’s not the drugs (though they sure as hell didn’t help), its not the crushed moments of happiness so consistently fucked up by my that wildly erratic streak of madness that would bring about a beast of a person rather than the genuine me. It’s an absence of understanding and a goddamn mental block that seems to sit heavier than lead across the pathways upstairs that say, “do something different and get something sustainably different. Make a fucking choice, you’re miserable, choose joy instead and go back to devil may care appreciation for the individual seconds. Intensity used to be something you looked forward to without fear, stop jumping at phones and the thunderous chance to strangle what could just as easily be a figment of your imagination. Go be wild and spontaneous and crazily thrilled to be alive, goddamn it, just fucking decide that happiness is as infectious as this venom you’ve been spewing to the detriment and disgust of anyone within spitting distance. Go get back in the manner of loving and spread some joy, learn something, make a change, and even if it’s as a fuck you to the unseen initially it’s still a choice you can make.”
I’m so sick of being sick in the head like this man. Fucking hell I’d like to see something amazing mundane and start appreciating the hell out of it….like that damn “American Beauty” scene with the plastic bag.
I’ll get there I suppose…I even start college in January and have a new list of goals for the first time in I don’t know how many years. Momentum, have to get it building up to break this bloody inertia.
Vented.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Seeing with Aspie Eyes
I have been falling far short of making the appropriate connection with my wife over a life defining realization that she has gone her life as an undiagnosed Aspie (high functioning autistic). There are odd layers of parallels to which there is a natural affinity, but there is something that I have been missing. This is my first attempt to look at the world through her eyes as I am best able to express and am hoping with guidance to be better able to straddle the world as she experiences it in contrast to my mental quirks like schizoaffective.
A screaming madhouse of trumpets blaring,
Drummers on speedballs layering the double bass,
Wavering certainty,
Confidence on the rise, but just barely,
The world is too bright,
The looks of strangers is just strange,
Maniacally plotting,
To a joke that you don’t know,
So tell them these interesting passion facts that they won’t know.
Smile while you cry,
Laugh at the wrong gasping sigh,
These rules and constraints are making breathing unfair.
Choke down and recite,
I’m okay and this is all right,
Till the next bad sound,
Bad brush of a fabric,
Discomfort from all around,
Can’t they see the connections?
Feel the motion of energy,
Don’t they understand this quality?
The world is askew,
Words like love and care,
Confused and tried over long rounds with intensity crackling the air.
There’s a kaleidoscopic cacophony of feels,
An incredible world beyond what we’re so painfully pound,
Just a look,
Just a taste,
“How can I be such a waste?”
So little understood,
All my earnest wishes are to call you now true friend,
This awkwardness leaves me bashful and confused,
They all leave anyways in the end.
How much do I accomplish just by opening a door,
Welcome in the miasma of fear that would leave a neurotypical floored,
Scent the wind,
Gather reserves,
By the time I’ve left my bed I’ve confronted an onslought of nerves,
Nevermind the staccato blasts of sanity on swerve.
If you listen and watch,
Appreciate the stimming and don’t consider this to be “my loss,”
You’ll know I am gloriously fragile,
Toweringly glassine,
A ravenous angel of knowledge and love,
Set to task and to pace,
Hurtled forward by God with a shove,
So be patient,
See that for what you may fear,
I’m sublimely sweet,
Easy to wound deep,
Each day the scars rip,
And for all of my toil and grit,
A reluctant soldier of survival all legit.
Penance is my smile for a crime that set me a glow,
Step into my world,
There is so much that I’ve been dying to show.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Ownership
Motivations interviewed and irrelevant,
I’ll lay my head guilty pressed on insignficant,
For cowards face never the burning sun,
They’ll hide in shadow and deep shades for far,
Too long to justify,
Too short to miss the feelings of defense,
A good name is relative depending on who plays the better game.
I’d settle for naught but honesty,
Review of self with society as whole the juror,
Makes for fearful selling,
That for each wounding action their is a conflict acting.
Were each moment played off the last,
All credit due for manipulations, scheming, mind games,
But each one remaining new,
Pure of outside intrusion more than human,
That would board for explanation.
To the inn keeper who lent a room,
Truth be told I wanted warmth without the price,
For both myself and my wife,
Without money on hand my labor was an easy price,
We left you a story and a poem,
You gave us peaceful hours till we meet again.
The individuals who have given freely and randomly,
Not all your funds went to the gas tanks,
In fact I know,
Aside from coffee and some flowers,
Much has gone to calm the sway of panic,
I regret to say booze to numb the world,
In this turmoil and limbo I’ve fallen to the ease of calling it a moral disease,
Let myself be sold to the desire,
A bottle sits easier sometime when buried in mental wreckage,
Burning in quagmire.
I’ve had bouts with lifting,
Ignoring and getting loud with my wife,
Falling short at jobs and seemingly checked out on life.
Surely by the standard of the world I’m guilt ridden as sinning,
My core personality is crawling back though,
Believe in its honesty or not,
I will sit down with a young woman and try to share her pain,
With my wife, bath tubs and reruns, church and tradition,
Moving Christmas boxes for a hot meal from a kitchen.
I’m finding a stride,
And yes, I am open to denouncement and decry,
I’m a fool touching down,
Getting his head scanned and on meds again,
Trying my best,
Hell, signed up for college and even showed for the test.
I’m far from perfect,
And I’ll sign to the tune of my own recognition,
Of failings I make,
Mistakes or plain fuckery from more rebellious days,
For the first time in long months though,
With eyes clear to the world,
As much as they can be,
I’m on a road to improvement,
On bettering up my awareness,
So that I can be I,
You can be you,
And together bring each other ourselves,
You and I, us and we.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
TTI – Troubled Teen Industry #2
Been going back through and working on a lot of different memories and listening to my wife who is also a survivor of the troubled teen industry though we went to different programs. When she is finally able to compile all of her research on the shocking disposition CURRENTLY of the political figures in office, misappropriated funds, connections back to mind-control programs from the German’s and the USA, Pavlovian work and scientifically backed manipulation and breaking sessions with CHILDREN that is allowed to go on today despite more than 50 documented deaths and thousands of lawsuits….it is my most fervent hope that it shakes this torture founded industry to its core and helps those other survivors attain a modicum of peace as it is torn money bound limb from limb with it’s supporters brought forward into the light as they so richly deserve.
In regards to the following piece, it reads a little bit askew – the rhythm is off a bit, but I thought this first draft before I expand it and refine to a spoken word piece might be worthwhile to share.
Best wishes and thank you for reading and any comments!
To the parents and the crooks,
The political impersonators who throw out the rules,
Sit back collecting stacks of cash while cooking the books.
Your children were tortured for paychecks and gain,
Sent off to boot camps and gulags,
Battle grounds where they learned nothing but shame.
Where brainwashing is a joy and considered a game,
Breaking wills and minds in front of others,
Forget that we were actually someone’s son or a brother.
Just stay out from fronting and flow in the current.
Where connections are made to MKULTRA and more,
Paperclip, Monarch, Bluebird to start,
Did you know that the APA head once had no heart?
Read into the research and what you will find,
Is that you sold off your children to perpetrators of a vicious crime.
Families in need of console,
Desperate to regain control,
Looking for someone to fill the hole,
Left by the departing absence of their lost child’s soul.
Here come the consultants,
Professionals for hire,
Arrange for kindnappings that draw no legal ire,
And off in a flash your confused child went,
To a community of sorts with promises to fill,
Make them better, fitter, compatible, or better still,
More compliant and loyal,
Fit to be royal,
Have ’em back in a jiff – 12-24 months isn’t too stiff.
And when the communication blackouts went on,
Fuckers stuck us back into rooms and handled us too strong.
Workshops in blacked out rooms,
Dog kennels and beatings,
Touched by staff and indoctrination meetings.
Hazing and rough play,
Rape and endless marches day to day,
Screams to a counselor,
Get put in a box,
You paid these fuckers to place us in places with locks.
All for our own good,
And what have you found?
Are most of us sound?
Hell no, just look down, down, fucking down.
You’ll find many of us cracked out in back alleys,
Drunk in ditches or trying to get our jolleys,
Hooked on fixes with drugs,
Banging strangers for our newest buzz,
Complex PTSD is the tip of the berg,
You ripped a generation of youth out of life,
Detached us from a world.
Is it any surprise?
We were shattered to pieces,
Taped back together despite our begging and cries.
No one could hear us, and no one cared if they did,
We were teenagers then,
Just fucking misunderstood.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Dis-illusionment
Come thundering into me,
Please,
I’m entranced by you.
The violence of the illusions,
The mystery of what lies beyond,
Not just for the betterment,
How long?
How long can it go before the cracks seek rift beneath?
Scramble neurons,
Wobbly organs,
Gray matter,
Gone where only MRIs can see.
I’m curious if they will even be able to find me
Or was this all well intentioned,
And just went so very, very wrong.
Your shares are appreciated, thank you.
Support for Creators
Patreon – Creator Support Website
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To Ink - a blog from Melting Neurons 