THE CAKE IS A LIE

builtforlowlight:

you’ve called me motherfucker
asshole
dick
bastard
sonofabitch
liar
and
jerk
you threw sandwiches
at me,
broke my lamps,
cried uncontrollably
in the middle of grocery store
parking lots
you
accused me
hated me
insulted me
and 
it seems
very deeply
loved me

and
now it’s quiet

I recently decided I am definitely going to grad school, and I found a great Buddhist-inspired university that focuses on contemplative psychology which is what I was going to do.

BUT.

It also offers a Masters in Creative Writing and Poetics. Is that a joke degree? I want to spend the majority of my life writing, but will I make it? Is it worth it? Should I get a real degree? 

I must ask the universe. and you guys.

I think we need more coffee

I need to fourth step my fourth step.

Let the pain come in waves

As it does

When a storm is near

Unexpectedly

Let the rush overtake you

When it wants

All the time

To suppress and repress

Is asking for a larger swell

(a larger hell)

Later

So take the small storms

As they begin

Let them in

And love them

They are a part of you too

Surfers learn to ride and race them

And so do dolphins

We are not unlike these graceful creatures

We just need a teacher

And these quiet storms teach you how to act appropriately

At funerals and such

When tensions are high

And you will probably get some decent writing out of it anyway.

Or a painting or song.

Some funny story.

Or at least a good cry.

Don’t worry if people stare

At one time, they have been there.

And they may even comfort you

With soft words

Or a tissue

Embrace them

They are a part of you

Too

When  you are feeling better

You will be there for them

And they will thank you

Through snotty noses

And tissue blows

And you will look at the sky differently

Than you are looking at it now

Because you have swam through the pain

It was not in vain

You can now help others

Not unlike yourself

Going through their own private hell.

I possess no peace

I’m always talking in my sleep,

Moaning curses to keep the demons from my dreams

I hear them sliding over sweaty sheets

Gelid ghouls gliding in a cruel, cold creep

Muscles frozen, my helpless body in a heap

Bible verses banging in my brain on repeat

“Halt, oh help, my soul to keep”

Dirty dagger-nails dig so deep

Snarling souls sink their wretched teeth

Lick their lips for their twelve o’ clock tea

On the drink menu for tonight: once again, it’s petrified me.

Embodied missing empathy

Like Siren snakes, they hiss Hellion poetry

Haikus heralded directly from Hades

I beg to barter,I am bound! Let me free!

From ghosts, you get no sympathy

My body: official atrophy.

My brain: insidious insanity

My spirit: endless agony.

The living nightmare that is recovery

Exhausted exhale, the sun shines through my bedroom door.

Move slowly, speak lower, my melancholic morning mourn

No reprieve, I anticipate the rapture’s unrepentant return.

To hunt me with their harrowing whores

Vexing vixens lurk to lure.

Spoon feed me their sordid soup du jour.

Oozing insides, filled with fret, my stomach turns.

Beseeching, I bellow, please, no more!

But here they come, my suffering, they adore.

To gnaw my brain

To prey on pain

To be my bane

Ravenous, they reign

I am insane!

Please leave my lane!

“Oh, shush! They say.

This is the only way

To everlasting resolution

Or you can choose the sorrowful , stopgap solution

Either make the ghost your undertaker  for a little while

or forever let them eat you nightly as you wallow in denial.

The choice is yours

Now, the bottle or the boy?

Or

Neither?

Neither, I replied.

Oh neither, she replies.

Let the demons devour me now and let those parts of me permanently die.

Let the addict finally die

 let the good soul finally try,

And learn to let each grieving ghost mourn its loss and pass on by…

in boulder, cold and tired,

Devouring poetry to fuel my fire

Swallowing words to irritate my ire

And like a loon, still luring liars

to  help me eat the events that have transpired

and whisper tall tales that might inspire

me to move, or at least aspire

to move away from the burning pyre

lest I die in throes of unfulfilled desire

and like every lonely loon that ever loved

I return to the river to douse the flames and to mourn my doted, mourning dove 

Is there anymore coffee?

God, I love cupcakes.

No solace or succor

without love or liquor

you might as well die

than deal with life dry.

I am dedicating this year to myself and my female friends.

No men, no fucking.

Celibacy.

AKA

How everything that seems like it’s going to suck will and then we blog about it.

Stay tuned. 

Day 29: just came immediately after masturbating to five seconds of lesbian porn.

It is what it is.