the living lie

Yeah, so I’m insane.

But insane like some writers.  Only I’m not talented in creative writing…  Turns out F-social was still about not fitting in anywhere… but an asylum.  Like many poets.  I know, I know, saying that denigrates poetry a little.

I represent no group.

But there’s also this:

But we’re never gonna survive, unless… we get a little  craaazy…
—Seal

But how to measure one’s level of crazy?  Is there, like, some ‘crazy’ equivalent to those Newtons or Fruitons or whatever it is that Scientology ‘measures’ in a person?

Anyway, this long poem… though based in truth, should also not see the light of day.
Not bad, maybe good, but horribly, inescapably depressing
You have been warned.
Another thing to see through (in text only).
Third time’s the charm on fixing the Seal line.

——————————

a birth.
rearing a hope and a new beginning, but also
of truth and challenge, pulling at strings
of the heart, bearing uneasy, wet tears.

a life.
a wild childhood, but a time complacent,
for time is limited, knowingly, “so act more,”
it mounts a strength of weakness in his core.

a loss.
a make for memory, but a break, nonetheless.
silent, the child does not understand, but
says he does, and learns to speak in a way.

a delay.
a call to rise, but his will rests
for a power of entertain, playing, working
with inferior machines, until regret does him in.

a means.
a reason to move, but alone, he cannot produce.
his work of labor, ineffective, yields realization
of a struggle, with an endless search for a soul.

a break.
a reason to grow, but broken, his efforts stemmed,
unsupported, pushing limits, pulling muscles, he finds
himself building, drafting on empty words.

a rebirth.
a new beginning, but also too a break from a chain
of lies and deflection; it pulls at his grasp, already
at a point, holding on to less upon little.

a crush.
a little death, but no orgasm here, longing
here, a pain in the chest, a hole in the heart,
a butterfly that died believing it could and had tried.

a drop.
a world most sad, but no more disappointing.
though a cause deemed lost, his fall from grace
was one in a race that began long ago.

a plunge.
a place of rest, but a final, omega, to the end
of his curse, to cold a false warm, to cut the lie,
himself.

a pain.
a death anew.

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