ouch, poetry, psychic poetry

More Than Our Sum

Death is forcing yourself to love the thing that everyone enjoys taking for you.

Compliments on your work comfort you enough to convince yourself that, “this isyour calling.”

But your inner child screams, “this is only a fraction of what I am capable of.”

And your conditioned self continues to respond, “Are you sure?”

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ouch, poetry, psychic poetry

Crawl In

I crawl in.

My body is elastic puddy; unable to coalesce.

No amount of interaction is able to change the make-up of my mind.
I am not fond of stillness either.

I tell myself that the lack I feel inside won’t last forever.
And while it is there to do what I can to buffer it.

True as the advice is, I hate it.

But not enough that rage replenishes the space devoid of action.
Not enough to convince me that stillness is better.

Resigned, I crawl in.
And let, rather than do.

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ouch, poetry, psychic poetry

Grasping for Ashes

It sucks when the memory of the last person you were with, which was the strongest thought to get you off, has begun to loose its potency.

The skeleton I have of him in my mind continues to deteriorate, making me feel like I am grasping for ashes to feel flames.

Pity, that the limitations of proximity make fuel hard to come by.

And the resources I have here, well, I’d rather watch superficial porn than fill myself with someone I don’t desire.

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ouch, poetry, psychic poetry

Going through the motions: steps and stops

I need to leave for a while.

To come undone and take a breath in presence.

Something more present than this myriad of steps and stops.

Going through the motions,
The movements of what looks like content, but feels like absent acts.

I’ll go away for a while.

And if I return, I’ll always wonder if this time I’ll stay content a little longer than the last.

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ouch, poetry, psychic poetry

Ouch #007

My heart swells with a sadness that comes from wanting and not receiving,

made worse by a serious effort in trying.

Conditions to protect myself from harm, fill me with woes of self-loathing.

What defeats me is the reminder that I am the devil that created this wake.

Only by my will can it shake.

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ouch, poetry, psychic poetry

Ouch #006

Rising from the ashes sounds like a relief.

But it is actually a lot more tumultuous than that.

You’re in pain.

Because what once was is no longer so.

And though you trust that it is better; your body is so new you’re afraid that your bravery will be broken by the slightest whisper.

There is an identity to what we hold onto.

It tastes sickly. For there is little comfort in smoke.

We forget that what dies into cinders is not all of us.

What is removed is dead growth.

In its place is the fire within, expanded into embers of warmth.

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