Overachieving

i think im just traumadumping with poetry at this point

Notice

I think I'm going to stop posting poetry. I've had enough. The depression hits exactly the same as always and I can't come up with anything new. The words are splayed out in front of you all - they will allow you to peer into my very soul - and there's nothing more for my poems to tell you, no arrangement of words that brings anything new to the table. Anything I make now will be rehashings of everything in the previously, and I don't think I can come up with anything new or good.

Good day to all.

May whatever God is up there see the insincerity of my penance.

Edit: I may continue posting cryptic shit because I'm eccentric like that fr.

Forever That Child At Age Five

Do you ever wonder if people can really change beyond their formative years?

"Sure they can. Maybe not the whole, but a solid chunk? Yeah."

Well, I suppose that's true to some extent.

A man can live the first 20 years of his life in a constant state of movement.

Studying, working, doing chores, being what he needs to be in order to survive a harsh environment.

Then he can live the next 20 years in a carefree state of relaxation,

and live the last 50 as the hardworking man once more to provide for his family.

Or at least, that's the story of my father.

But I fear I am still going to be that same child I was, back when I was five, ten, fifteen.

I fear I am forever going to be under the shadow of that man,

that man who had two children without even realizing how fucked up his own childhood was.

I fear I will never become anything more, at my core, than that five year old child.

Sure, I suppose I'll change, superficially; maybe I'll know a bit more, fit into society a bit more, and so on.

But at heart I will still be that same, sad, scared little child,

a child who would do anything for a bit of affirmation and approval.

I fear that when I am thirty, or fifty, or eighty, or a hundred-twenty, or however the fuck long I live,

that I will still be no different from the child I was when I was five.

I fear that I am always going to be the same little boy who begs for just the slightest bit of love.

I fear that I am forever that child at age five.

I Don't Deserve A Thing

I don't deserve to be happy, I'm just another useless fool,

Doing nothing and nothing and nothing till the end of time,

and if saving the someone took 10 hours of my life and I wouldn't be noticed,

then I'd probably just let them die whatever death out of laziness.

I don't deserve to be sad, I've been relatively lucky,

I am fed, with a roof over my head, constant electricity, more clothes than I know what to do with, and the sky is blue,

and it doesn't matter that I was beaten and yelled at and traumatized,

because everyone else had it much worse and got over it, so why can't I?

I don't deserve to be wanted, I'm not supposed to be wanted,

Anybody who wants me is greatly appreciated and surely a fool,

for anybody who could love this person with this face is a miracle,

a miracle of idiocy and foolishness and complete lack of judgement.

I don't deserve to be hated, why would you hate me,

it brings you nothing and I'm not even worthy of hate,

instead please ignore me, ignore everything I say,

for the silent treatment is worse than the loudest slur.

I don't deserve to talk, I don't deserve to be known,

I don't deserve to be heard louder than the people who starve,

or the people who bleed, or the people who lose, or the people who die,

I don't deserve to deserve at all, anything in this lucky, cruel world.

I Need to Move

I need to move.

I need to run.

I don’t know why.

Maybe to run from my past.

Maybe to run towards my future.

Maybe to run to beat my enemies, who are now old and weak.

I need to fight.

I don’t know why.

Maybe to assert my own superiority.

Maybe to assert my own self-defense capability.

Maybe to practice for when I am to fight my enemies on equal ground for the first and last time.

I need to move.

I don’t know why.

Maybe to run towards the future.

Maybe to fight the evils of my past.

Maybe to finally feel proud and confident of my body, of my self, for the first time.

I need to move.

Pushing Me

The Day of Reckoning comes and goes.

I think I am free. I act as if I am free.

You take that freedom away from me.

You say it is for my own good.

I see how much you love me.

But this is not the right way.

You have pushed me my whole life.

Everything I am is thanks to you.

All the glory. And all the pain.

The same boiling water that hardens the potato will soften the egg.

The same heat that purifies the iron also makes it soft.

The same hammer that strikes the nail will cave in my head.

Just one more year, you say. Just one more year until the moment.

Just one more year until I can enjoy my own existence.

Just one more fucking year.

That moment comes and goes and it moves ever further back.

You move the Rubicon South, and you move it further South.

The march never ends. We must push to the Rubicon.

It is always the critical moment. Each battle is the deciding fight.

Each time you promise me that the next fight will be the last.

And each time I believe you.

You were pushing me when I was a child.

You still push me as an adult.

I'm sure you will still push me as an old man.

Pushing me right into that open coffin as you tell me my legs aren't good enough.

This Bottled-Up Rage

Hey, dad. You've given me a lot over the years. You've given me everything I have. You've pushed me to everything I did well.

You've also given me a lot of rage. You've given me a lot to hate about. You've given me a lot of trauma.

There's a lot that I want to say here but I can't. Because that would be stupid. Of course it would.

And so I'm stuck now with this mass of boiling rage and hatred and all of it

This fucking stupid idiotic terrible legacy you've passed down

Just hate hate hate nothing but hate just hate

Rage against everyone and everything

But don't actually say it out loud

Just keep it all tucked away

Like a shelf with

ten thousand

big bottles

of rage

tucked

safely

away

.

God Will Weep

God will weep

for the souls of the damned

and the sins of the holy

when I shove my fist through his chest

God will weep

for the poor and suffering

and the mistakes of the greats

when I kick his corpse off the cliff

God will weep

for the sins he has committed

and the suffering of the good

when I shove my foot through his skull

God will weep

for the wrongs he has done to me

and the defects he made me with

when I throw his ashes into the wastewater collection plant

God will weep

because when I find his house

and break in the door

he fucking better cry.

I reach for the bright future

and I fall just one inch short

It is good enough. I have done enough.

But it is all unraveling back again.

I changed my direction.

I chose the better path.

I worked towards truly living.

So why is it falling back apart?

I convinced myself I could be happy.

I convinced myself I was allowed to be happy.

I convinced myself it would be better to be happy.

So why do I feel like I deserve to suffer?

Do I have anything to say for myself?

Do I have some sort of penance to offer?

Do I regret my choice, or only that I failed?

Should I regret my existence, too?

was the pie in the sky just another fucking lie?

this is not effective.

only posts that succeed get attention, and are then reblogged by other people.

This creates the appearance of an unbroken chain of people succeeding.

In other words: this is a form of selection bias, specifically survivorship bias.