The
child of me that never got lived, wants out of me, inexplicably ever shadowing
through yet still holding me back, in everything said or done. What beckons me along, are assumptions I
started. What bottoms me out, it appears I’ll eventually end. But what life
would I have, without any of that? All those fantasies made up in my mind and
the legends kept of my many escapes, keep me trapped creating a world that
can’t happen. The summation of all of my deeds, together with my expectations
that can never be achieved only evidence my Judas gene as betraying me. And as
a serpent of diminishing worth, yet also as an angel of expanding confidence,
self-judgment keeps me preoccupied with these polarizations defining my deeds. There
are these inners voices listened to, yet denied while I speak the rhetoric of
my ensuing victimhood. Life around me constantly talks to the walls of my being
while I only overhear mufflings as echoes. Instant karma is always coming my
way while readied with my typical ‘why me’ response, always preparing for each
moment by murmuring to myself, once again, my clearly small-minded story. I am
sex drive I dream of and seek. I am the sex I experience and dispondantly
leave. Conflicting events in my life lean forward towards me, revealing desires
that are distant yet consuming. I am the love that always leaves me. I am the
lover that catches me at my game. All this only tightening the tourniquet of
possessiveness at the surround of my heart which I expected to call living. I
am the flesh-point of my notions of lust. While I am the stress point of my
brow-beating mind yet going tongue to tongue with primal extremes. I am the sum
of physical abuse endured from others, this physical abuse then used to
identify me. People wrap their lives around me and what is taken from them,
eventually resides as intimate mixed messages, for I am the storyteller that is
kissed by imagination. I am the listener of rumors that burn in my ears. Sometimes
just vacantly wondering out loud, now who of me hears for me when I listen. Yes,
I am that roller coaster I ride and call life. I am the chariot I race and call
it living. My body can show you all the marks from these, my adrenal
addictions. There are remarks made that hit heavily in my gut. Some of these
remarks swim inside me for days. But sometimes these remarks whisper the truth
to me, right through my mask of sincere honesty. I am this, my last breath,
halfheartedly wasted and I am this next breath, reluctantly inhaled. Yet breath
is willing to kiss me without ceasing but I only breathe in what I can steal to
keep living. As always, there are dark clouds around me composed of my lies. These
are tall mountains of guilt, ultimately to climb. And for this, I am the cave
of myself, I find hard to enter or embrace. Blessed accidents have forever
changed my life. For now, I am one who reacts rather then responds. Life
promises to send me a change of heart that I know is ultimately wrapped in bad
fortune. I am all the artifacts that will execute an end to my life. I am all
those habits that support me towards death. But I still want to meet my
killers, face to face, dancing cheek to cheek, before it is my time. Pain gets
my attention, for I am wounds to heal. Suffering and aging give me their
undivided attention. But still, I ask. What lessons about life can I still
learn from this body of mine? I am depression that I outlive and depravity I
avoid. I am transformative drugs of experience that I put through my mind. I
now view my habits as rituals in thirst for the light. I am my last draw, my
end above the bottom line. I am my final bequest, waiting for my last meal,
while my guardian angel appreciatively shows me this illuminating video, where
I played as myself, confounded then, as I was, as this prisoner of the
paradoxes, of being in time . . .
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