The Burn Cycle Emotional Masochism
So I thought about it. I did.
This is my Burn Cycle ever moving, ever crossing.
If you were to keep one thing in mind always, it would have to be
I learn to burn
And I burn to learn
I was thinking about how many times I have had ghosts come upon my journal and go.
..So I read your journal today, and I know that was about me
Tricky, tricky
Not really. I say in my frustrated way.
I mean, I’m writing this for myself. It’s a painting on the road. It gets run over and you see it, but don’t necessarily view it in depth. Sometimes, on occasions people happen to walk by and sit for a spell and take a look.
Yet that’s not why I do it.
I am satisfied with my purge.
It’s my emotions.
Yet this question has been asked often enough leaves me choking on the dregs of what was passed while I try to explain my venerable exorcism of my hart to the one who caused its seed.
So for unadulterated pain or pleasure here comes a long and sordid piece. I don’t do it very often and I will do my best to remove as much florid speech and personal symbolism.
This one…is probably about you
And me
So I don’t tend to write straight forward. I mentioned it was about my emotions and if it happened to be about my burning forlorn travels, and how I had them with you. How I remember them or wish them to be, or how they are now in my not so subtle rage. That leaves me open. It’s imperative to me that I don’t leave a well oiled torch burning in my heart like house. I don’t like being venerable and I don’t like answering for the rage I produce here as a way of absolving my pain without, well, causing too much catastrophe for those involved.
A monster walks in the night.
So this was my doll child and his name was Aaron. I guess I always thought in a way he would grow up. I think I have been disappointed the most by his snide comments about what he has seen. Considering he lost everything he held dear in one fell swoop.
The idea of love is still lost on him and I wonder if he will ever get to some sort of understanding with the commitment and pain therein. This love he has lost is now a toy he plays with in her submission, playing games with a girl that cannot say no by societal standards, as he tries it out, over and over again on so many others.
I imagine him in Japan making his millions becoming the very thing he protested against. The very image of his father. The likeness of a man hard at work and destructive at play. The kind of man who’ll get a prostitute pregnant and leave his only son to find about it, oh 19 years later.
I picture him now reading my journal out loud and hating it, I picture him getting head while he does this. Some sort of means to eat away at this very thing we call my venerability. I wonder then, as I inhale, is that cum just a little more bitter my sweet darling Japanese passion girl?
I regret that he never appeared human. That he could never listen with passion or fever towards anyone else’s positive ideas. I regret that he never learned to cuddle with his ear as well as voice without striking a dissonant chord. I reject the idea of talking to him, but I still keep tabs. Hoping to see something…hear something
Real
Dances in the shadows
Mercy knows the way
Yet does he? Jonathan taught me a lot. He did.
I guess I learned most that God is not Jesus. Oh no, because God could not get up on that humble cross and get staked to the idea of friendship with me.
We had something extraordinary. We agreed on that.
We loved each other very much. We agreed on that too.
I finally learned how to be a friend. Yet the way of friendship came by love. I don’t suppose I could be any other type. I demand too much. No, my friends need me and love me. I suppose that’s why I can’t count them on one hand, not on my fingers at all.
Yet
I wanted you. So very much to be there. I wanted to, be there for you too.
I will always think of the quite patience and all the times you listened and allowed me to be me. How you saw colors in everything I did. How you were a complete inspiration.
Yet I cannot live with a passenger riding forever in my car. I needed a driver too.
Now you are gone, with a bombastic chin and clicking teeth. Holier than thou arch fiend in me. This you found and I didn’t. Never will. It’s been years and I still poke that God when ever I can.
Soft butterfly skin and a mouth like a cupie doll.
Chris.
Holy shit on a stick.
Did you know that I found someone way more intense than me? I did.
He wanted to crawl right back up into my soul womb. He was pure, still is. Something that sweet and pure has to be perverted. So he is.
I felt like a nun when he talked to me and I felt like an objectionable piece of meat when he propositioned me. I could barely stare at him and I could never get over it. No matter how much he wanted me to.
I had to let him go. I could not balance out his need with mine. I simply want him to be happy these days and to find some one who can soak up all his intensity. Good blood gravy never gets wasted. Someone who appreciates his finer perverted streams of thoughts without feeling like a steel trap caught in molten lava.
That’s right, this predator felt like prey.
Now I get to the point where I make my existence, didn’t mean to do this in strange chrono like order. I guess it all depends on who is counting and how you do it.
* chuckles softly *
Mechanical butterfly
With green eyes
This would be my current tide of rain this would be my current standard on high, this would be my logic burdened action oriented boyfriend
This would be my Brian
This mech monster
Does everything else but me
Play with everyone else but me
This little perfect demon with a sincerely disgusting wit but it’s just so odd you have to laugh out there kind of guy
Has taught me a little about this burn cycle
I’m an emotional masochist
That isn’t so surprising is it?
He’s emotionally crippled. He can’t feel most days and when he does he feels so much they put him on medication that’s eating away at his soul. That’s okay I prefer him on it. And no he’s not manic depressive. Though sometimes I wonder.
Still he can’t handle my codependency and he can’t handle my ideas and he can’t handle my need to just talk.
He’d prefer to trade jokes with you. There isn’t anything deep in those waters.
To say that he has no pain and no past is most assuredly not what I am talking about.
I’m simply saying he doesn’t want to know what is lurking in my soul and he doesn’t want to know what is lurking in his and he certainly doesn’t want to do it while cuddling.
He can do that for say, oh five minutes
Men have to challenge me for love. They have to gain my respect and yes I feel like I have to gain theirs. There is a deserving level in all this. I’m venerable, remember how I mentioned that? Yeah well I was always trying to figure out what I was doing with this punk kid. Why, I mean really, nothing there but art. Yes we both like art. He doesn’t even like reading.
I realized I need him to remind me that I a more.
Not by encouragement.
By taking it all away from me.
In a sense, he is my deprivation chamber of emotion.
And I’ll walk this horse till it’s very very dead.
I have hope that eventually he’ll learn how to love someone closer, more, harder, easier. Simply, on fire.
Yet he has to love himself more to do that.
I guess what I am trying to say is, I learned to dance on the sun, and I am still doing it. I think that my lost loves kind of thought I would be happy, that I would in all bitterness, become a success, and get married and all that.
Really I’m still doing what I set out to do from the very beginning.
And now you’ve seen my burnt souls.
And this is about you and this is about me.
And it just doesn’t seem anywhere near as cool to me to put it all out there like this.
You asked such a long time ago, and you asked yesterday. (Brian doesn’t count because he doesn’t care what I write in here so he won’t be perturbed)
So in way I’m fulfilling that very interesting part about me
Emotional
Masochism
Because otherwise I’m a sadist born
This is my Burn Cycle ever moving, ever crossing.
If you were to keep one thing in mind always, it would have to be
I learn to burn
And I burn to learn
I was thinking about how many times I have had ghosts come upon my journal and go.
..So I read your journal today, and I know that was about me
Tricky, tricky
Not really. I say in my frustrated way.
I mean, I’m writing this for myself. It’s a painting on the road. It gets run over and you see it, but don’t necessarily view it in depth. Sometimes, on occasions people happen to walk by and sit for a spell and take a look.
Yet that’s not why I do it.
I am satisfied with my purge.
It’s my emotions.
Yet this question has been asked often enough leaves me choking on the dregs of what was passed while I try to explain my venerable exorcism of my hart to the one who caused its seed.
So for unadulterated pain or pleasure here comes a long and sordid piece. I don’t do it very often and I will do my best to remove as much florid speech and personal symbolism.
This one…is probably about you
And me
So I don’t tend to write straight forward. I mentioned it was about my emotions and if it happened to be about my burning forlorn travels, and how I had them with you. How I remember them or wish them to be, or how they are now in my not so subtle rage. That leaves me open. It’s imperative to me that I don’t leave a well oiled torch burning in my heart like house. I don’t like being venerable and I don’t like answering for the rage I produce here as a way of absolving my pain without, well, causing too much catastrophe for those involved.
A monster walks in the night.
So this was my doll child and his name was Aaron. I guess I always thought in a way he would grow up. I think I have been disappointed the most by his snide comments about what he has seen. Considering he lost everything he held dear in one fell swoop.
The idea of love is still lost on him and I wonder if he will ever get to some sort of understanding with the commitment and pain therein. This love he has lost is now a toy he plays with in her submission, playing games with a girl that cannot say no by societal standards, as he tries it out, over and over again on so many others.
I imagine him in Japan making his millions becoming the very thing he protested against. The very image of his father. The likeness of a man hard at work and destructive at play. The kind of man who’ll get a prostitute pregnant and leave his only son to find about it, oh 19 years later.
I picture him now reading my journal out loud and hating it, I picture him getting head while he does this. Some sort of means to eat away at this very thing we call my venerability. I wonder then, as I inhale, is that cum just a little more bitter my sweet darling Japanese passion girl?
I regret that he never appeared human. That he could never listen with passion or fever towards anyone else’s positive ideas. I regret that he never learned to cuddle with his ear as well as voice without striking a dissonant chord. I reject the idea of talking to him, but I still keep tabs. Hoping to see something…hear something
Real
Dances in the shadows
Mercy knows the way
Yet does he? Jonathan taught me a lot. He did.
I guess I learned most that God is not Jesus. Oh no, because God could not get up on that humble cross and get staked to the idea of friendship with me.
We had something extraordinary. We agreed on that.
We loved each other very much. We agreed on that too.
I finally learned how to be a friend. Yet the way of friendship came by love. I don’t suppose I could be any other type. I demand too much. No, my friends need me and love me. I suppose that’s why I can’t count them on one hand, not on my fingers at all.
Yet
I wanted you. So very much to be there. I wanted to, be there for you too.
I will always think of the quite patience and all the times you listened and allowed me to be me. How you saw colors in everything I did. How you were a complete inspiration.
Yet I cannot live with a passenger riding forever in my car. I needed a driver too.
Now you are gone, with a bombastic chin and clicking teeth. Holier than thou arch fiend in me. This you found and I didn’t. Never will. It’s been years and I still poke that God when ever I can.
Soft butterfly skin and a mouth like a cupie doll.
Chris.
Holy shit on a stick.
Did you know that I found someone way more intense than me? I did.
He wanted to crawl right back up into my soul womb. He was pure, still is. Something that sweet and pure has to be perverted. So he is.
I felt like a nun when he talked to me and I felt like an objectionable piece of meat when he propositioned me. I could barely stare at him and I could never get over it. No matter how much he wanted me to.
I had to let him go. I could not balance out his need with mine. I simply want him to be happy these days and to find some one who can soak up all his intensity. Good blood gravy never gets wasted. Someone who appreciates his finer perverted streams of thoughts without feeling like a steel trap caught in molten lava.
That’s right, this predator felt like prey.
Now I get to the point where I make my existence, didn’t mean to do this in strange chrono like order. I guess it all depends on who is counting and how you do it.
* chuckles softly *
Mechanical butterfly
With green eyes
This would be my current tide of rain this would be my current standard on high, this would be my logic burdened action oriented boyfriend
This would be my Brian
This mech monster
Does everything else but me
Play with everyone else but me
This little perfect demon with a sincerely disgusting wit but it’s just so odd you have to laugh out there kind of guy
Has taught me a little about this burn cycle
I’m an emotional masochist
That isn’t so surprising is it?
He’s emotionally crippled. He can’t feel most days and when he does he feels so much they put him on medication that’s eating away at his soul. That’s okay I prefer him on it. And no he’s not manic depressive. Though sometimes I wonder.
Still he can’t handle my codependency and he can’t handle my ideas and he can’t handle my need to just talk.
He’d prefer to trade jokes with you. There isn’t anything deep in those waters.
To say that he has no pain and no past is most assuredly not what I am talking about.
I’m simply saying he doesn’t want to know what is lurking in my soul and he doesn’t want to know what is lurking in his and he certainly doesn’t want to do it while cuddling.
He can do that for say, oh five minutes
Men have to challenge me for love. They have to gain my respect and yes I feel like I have to gain theirs. There is a deserving level in all this. I’m venerable, remember how I mentioned that? Yeah well I was always trying to figure out what I was doing with this punk kid. Why, I mean really, nothing there but art. Yes we both like art. He doesn’t even like reading.
I realized I need him to remind me that I a more.
Not by encouragement.
By taking it all away from me.
In a sense, he is my deprivation chamber of emotion.
And I’ll walk this horse till it’s very very dead.
I have hope that eventually he’ll learn how to love someone closer, more, harder, easier. Simply, on fire.
Yet he has to love himself more to do that.
I guess what I am trying to say is, I learned to dance on the sun, and I am still doing it. I think that my lost loves kind of thought I would be happy, that I would in all bitterness, become a success, and get married and all that.
Really I’m still doing what I set out to do from the very beginning.
And now you’ve seen my burnt souls.
And this is about you and this is about me.
And it just doesn’t seem anywhere near as cool to me to put it all out there like this.
You asked such a long time ago, and you asked yesterday. (Brian doesn’t count because he doesn’t care what I write in here so he won’t be perturbed)
So in way I’m fulfilling that very interesting part about me
Emotional
Masochism
Because otherwise I’m a sadist born