Some days there’s a struggle going
on the deepest parts of my brain
between acceptance and denial
of what I have become and
how I got there.
Most of the struggles involve
run-on sentences and essay-like
tomes of nonsense, all cramming
into a clown car of thought, all
trying to be the one to yell, “First” and toot a horn.
It’s self important, it’s self-pity,
it’s another day spent in personally
decreed silence because I don’t want to
talk to anyone but desperately want to
with someone special.
I make myself sick with worry about
being alone, being rejected, unaccepted,
shunned, avoided, demonized, hated, feared,
being made a fool of, being a fool,
consumed with anxiety and stillness.
Distracted by it, constantly taunted by
couples, canoodling, kissing, sharing, loving,
laughing, fighting, swearing, looking at each
other in that way that says they know everything
about each other and the comfort they take in it.
I’m ill with the obsessions over my seemingly
self imposed loneliness, because of anxiety,
depression and mediocre self confidence, I think
it’s all my fault, I’m some hideous monster of a guy
undeserving of any love from a gal. It’s not true. It’s not true?
The burns suffered are deep, through the meat,
into the bone, charred, and I’m not sure when it’ll
heal, if it will heal, can it heal, who would want me if
it didn’t heal, how does it heal, why hasn’t it healed yet,
what’s taking so long, what’s taking so long, what’s taking so long…
The struggle goes on and on, over and over,
in sweeping cycles, like seasons, a season where
one’s fancy turns to spring, romance, love, and
something new, something special and deserving
of adoration and to be cherished. Then dashed by winter.
Anxiety, depression, has an effect,
It’s like crushing a beautiful flower in the
palm of your hand. Something so lovely and tender,
yet you can’t stop, can’t control, your hand from smashing it,
and smearing it on the walls.
You wonder if you deserved such a beautiful thing
and then you worry that you’ll never have such a beautiful thing
again, so you do silly or stupid things to try and find it again, but you can’t
find it, so you stop looking and hope the beauty will find
you, but that isn’t working, taking too long, too isolating, too terrifying…
And then, will you just smash it again, in your hand
as you are lost in the beauty of it? Is that what will happen,
is that the pattern? Is there any escape from the loop de loop
of the clown car of thought.
How does it work? What does it take?
I’m not sure what it takes in this world, to
be deserving of love, to be loved, to have
someone there, waiting just to hear about how
your day was and you can’t wait to hear about
their day. To look in your eyes and see the best of themselves.
It seems so simple and yet so impossible.
Like running under a starry sky, it seems like
it would be easy to grab the stars in your hands
and scoop them from the air,
but it’s impossible.
The uncertainty of the impossible, or
possible, has been wearing me down,
the edges are rougher with the shaving,
the patience is thinner, the time is
shorter. But it’s deep down there.