drawn open and bleeding
I have this rage in me. This rage that festers and festers as the days and weeks go on. A rage that boils and churns. I have to hold it in constantly, I have to wait and wait and wait and wait for solitude. For that sweet, dark, warm solitude that washes over me like a thunderstorm. I can feel the drizzle as it runs down my back and into my stomach, digging a pit. A deep pit of its own gravity sucking me into it. As it festers and festers, the energy builds and the rain starts to pour. And it pours. ANd it pours. Until I find myself lost behind the sheet of water, unable to see my hand if it's poised in front of my face. Blackness engulfs me and I find myself falling into my past, questioning things that have already been answered. Things that have already been dealt with. ALl the pain and guilt of the past. The tremendous guilt I have felt for ten years festers and churns and boils, and I forget my atheism, blaming god for all of my pain. There is no one else to blame. How can I blame myself? How can I take anymore hurt? How can one person endure all of this?
And then i think about all the other people int he world.l That feel all of this too, and it makes my struggle seem pointless. Seem unnoticed and frivilous. All of the love I have for the world turns to hate and I want nothing more than to get up and start running. Run and run until my feet can't carry me any further. I try to reach out for help, but it always seems as though when I need someone they're never there. I make myself so available to everyone else, that when it's finally my turn, no one will return the favor.
I think all about all that hate, and I turn it inward. Hating myself for reasons taht are unfounded. It seems as though no matter how much progress I've made over the course of a lifetime, I end up in that same place, drowning and clawing in the rain, begging for respite. Respite respite and nepthenthe.
Oh, Poe, how did you endure it? How can something so dark and painful become something so beautiful? Something so revered and esteemed? The greatest comfort, right now, wouldn't cure the itch.
What to do?
After the questions are done, the rage starts again. The inward hate spurs outward, extended to the far reaches of the earth and everyone on that earth is smothered by my rage. My rage for all of the pain, destruction, hate, and treachery in the world. The human condition. Human fallacy. Human trepedation. Exile. Loss. Genocide.
I can't reach out far enough. My finger tips fall short of any sort of relief. And even as a slight calm cools the rage, the relief is only brief. Soon the churning begins again. And as the churning flows, the rage boils and all is engulfed by my hatred. My hatred for the world, for everyone in it, for god, and for myself. I imagine windows shattering as my ear-splitting screech stretches through the lands, ears of passersby bleeding and heads exploding.
So misunderstood.
Pity ensues and I find myself sobbing harder. Sobbing harder than the rage churns. I know tomorrow will be different, but the pain that I have endured will come back, in some other way. The way that I let people hurt me, let them get to me, let them crawl under my skin and burrow, poisoning me with rage and hatred.
A calm again.
How long will this calm last?
I don't have time for this.
And then i think about all the other people int he world.l That feel all of this too, and it makes my struggle seem pointless. Seem unnoticed and frivilous. All of the love I have for the world turns to hate and I want nothing more than to get up and start running. Run and run until my feet can't carry me any further. I try to reach out for help, but it always seems as though when I need someone they're never there. I make myself so available to everyone else, that when it's finally my turn, no one will return the favor.
I think all about all that hate, and I turn it inward. Hating myself for reasons taht are unfounded. It seems as though no matter how much progress I've made over the course of a lifetime, I end up in that same place, drowning and clawing in the rain, begging for respite. Respite respite and nepthenthe.
Oh, Poe, how did you endure it? How can something so dark and painful become something so beautiful? Something so revered and esteemed? The greatest comfort, right now, wouldn't cure the itch.
What to do?
After the questions are done, the rage starts again. The inward hate spurs outward, extended to the far reaches of the earth and everyone on that earth is smothered by my rage. My rage for all of the pain, destruction, hate, and treachery in the world. The human condition. Human fallacy. Human trepedation. Exile. Loss. Genocide.
I can't reach out far enough. My finger tips fall short of any sort of relief. And even as a slight calm cools the rage, the relief is only brief. Soon the churning begins again. And as the churning flows, the rage boils and all is engulfed by my hatred. My hatred for the world, for everyone in it, for god, and for myself. I imagine windows shattering as my ear-splitting screech stretches through the lands, ears of passersby bleeding and heads exploding.
So misunderstood.
Pity ensues and I find myself sobbing harder. Sobbing harder than the rage churns. I know tomorrow will be different, but the pain that I have endured will come back, in some other way. The way that I let people hurt me, let them get to me, let them crawl under my skin and burrow, poisoning me with rage and hatred.
A calm again.
How long will this calm last?
I don't have time for this.