-how to hate yourself, properly


honest reproach

here in the cowardice of phlegm do I sit
captured tumultuously by the shame of wit
attempts at passing lonesome writ
as meaningful, when it comes from this bottomless pit
in the end we succumb that it’s nothing but shit
we disguise with fanciness, semantics for spit
-W.E.

I’ve bathed in words,
showered under the guise of cleansing myself from the fire of poetry,
drank until my bladder screamed stop with this,
until lungs have drowned in this pathetic attempt at finding a scale,
a meter,
a balance,
a semblance of sanity amongst all this noise.

The rain of rhyme,
only passes the time,
to this ocean of truth that dissipates,
evaporates like spume and droplets fine,
goblets of ancient wines,
from serpent vines,
entwined,
here within this cowardly heart I build this shrine,
music, art, words, and words, and words, and words,
and all of it avails nothing,
in front of silence.

And how I keep falling in love with it.
I cheat on my wife, my children, my brethren, my mother,
I cheated my father,
I’m so sorry father,
you never cheated me a day and there I was a thief,
silent,
lost in this ambience of stillness,
trying to find all this time, what was amiss,
a wanderer without a compass,
and still,
a trembling still,
I only knew; still.

Grown, supposedly a man,
nothing makes any sense,
not maps, not direction, not guides,
not people who hold my hand,
who try to understand
and I don’t understand,
I don’t know why they try to understand.

There is no way to massage this water of knotting words out of me,
to stop it from aching so much.

I must be struck,
with a fever and sweat,
a river of hurt,
there is no strength, without fragility,
no growth, without stretching of the bones of you,
the fabric of you must be pulled to the seams limit,
the banks must flood with pain until they break,
and all the ravaging will slow, and water will calm,
and the sediments of disarray settle,
perhaps then,
the water becomes transparent enough,
for me to look inside my soul,
to finally see that all that I prattle,
all that I rattle,
the sheep like conformity,
and laziness of cattle,
enslavement of mind,
and the inside battle,
is nothing more than worship of self,
placing myself on a mantle.

So prattle and prattle,
soon I’ll dismantle,
when I realise my abasement,
and all my inner dialogue is babble,
hyena of my mind,
no better than a jackal.

-W.E.

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