wrote the piece below in April of 1995.
I am posting it today because it still defines my existence. The writing is about how it is so hard to be
hopeful because there is always something to strip me of that comfort.
concede today I choose to live my days clouded with negativity, but Therapist does
not understand why I refuse to give in to the fallacy of hope and positive
thinking. I’ve been in places before
where I felt hopeful, optimistic, and encouraged, but I am ALWAYS, sooner or later,
brought back to where I was born: into negativity, failure, and the drive to
die. The roller coaster ride takes too
much out of me, and I need to remain where I am safest: dead. I refuse to play the silly game of pretending
I can handle life and then plummeting into misery when I am proven wrong. It’s for my own protection. It was back in 1995, and it still is today.
of salt water are
from shallow, dim sockets
the windows of life have closed
grave blinds and solemn curtains.
myth of happiness is exposed,
with maggots of agony surfeiting and gorging
the generous failures of its host.
charade of myself:
brutal microscopic inspection.
illusion of hope, the facade of faith,
and pleads for my desolated soul to trust,
and mocking every ache, every pang.
strength and determination,
the impending and imminent spiral descent
dangerous and inclement.
down in despair, life becomes a bleached white hell.
flaming bouquet of numbing, frosty torment
thickly charred crust till I can no longer pretend it doesn’t hurt.
echoes out of the abyss,
the proprietor of suicide
compassionately erases the color of misery from us sufferers of life,
holds out the only comfort that hoards
illusion, NO myth, NO charade:
warm, blue peace of death.