Brick After Brick

Brick after brick,

Stuck together with your morbid mortar

Building it up, building it up;

Day after day,

Crossing lines and strengthening borders

Cutting me up ‘til I can’t give a fuck;

Bar after bar,

Your sepulcher becomes my cell

Screwing me up, screwing you up;

Brick after brick, you’re building a permanent wall

Between us, building it up between us.

 

Somehow haven’t realized that when you actualize the assault of those who you fault and night after night seek safe harbor in me, regardless of the fact that you’re the harmer of me, the chink in my armor that tries to charm me into being sweet and patient while deepening hatred in yourself, towards yourself, while saying that I hate you. Doesn’t matter what I say about that being untrue, doesn’t matter what efforts I make you still react the same; first action of the day is to feed the demons and bask in misery and then shout and holler before eight in the morning when I choose to stay productive rather than join in cuddles of mourning. Time to understand that it has been building up…

 

Brick after brick,

Stuck together with your morbid mortar

Building it up, building it up;

Day after day,

Crossing lines and strengthening borders

Cutting me up ‘til I can’t give a fuck;

Bar after bar,

Your sepulcher becomes my cell

Screwing me up, screwing you up;

Brick after brick, you’re building a permanent wall

Between us, building it up between us.

 

Some lessons are hard-learned, most of them are well earned, and scars result from being burned. Hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned but there is nothing colder than my heart which you once warmed. I don’t believe in regret because our choices beget what they beget and I am seasoned enough to see the reasons for such mistakes, but if I could take one thing I have done and undo it, I would have listened to the voice that screamed in my head to not do it when spring brought us back together so that I could work on myself and learn to better weather the storms of the scorned and no longer need to implore for more time to sort out my mind. It’s not really what you have done wrong, but that I made the first mistake and have payed for it all along. Yet another debt that has just been building up…

 

Brick after brick,

Stuck together with your morbid mortar

Building it up, building it up;

Day after day,

Crossing lines and strengthening borders

Cutting me up ‘til I can’t give a fuck;

Bar after bar,

Your sepulcher becomes my cell

Screwing me up, screwing you up;

Brick after brick, you’re building a permanent wall

Between us, building it up between us.

Brick after brick, it’s time to deconstruct.

Advertisements

Not The Same Path

If you were walking along the same path that I was, and it was you who under the bus was shoved after being blasted by a blunderbuss, I would help you up and call a medic to attend to it quick and build you a splint from long grass and a thick stick; however you diverge and cave to the urge to hurt and have set up your yurt on different turf than I can endure, and it is indeed me who is being shoved in your manure, with you expecting to procure assistance in every petty mission and your need to be reassured perdures.

Now I ain’t aiming to be an asshole, but you’re a classical example of so many a parable and I know you’re going to think that’s bull. Allow me to elaborate and demonstrate that my aim is not one of hate, I simply wish to elucidate the situation, so you can have a realistic perception of what it is to view from my station. The Sisyphus stone of your errant interrogations, the Hydra of what hides behind your actions in unrealized or semi-realized expressions of anger through the pained eyes of a child who has not learned to let the curse of their hurt be the strength required to thrive (all that pain can be sublimated if you redirect your hate to focus on better mind-states), and that’s just two but I think you may by now be drooping and enervated at reading the pages of my view; after all, it is not something I wrote for you to agree to.

Call me a crack-pot or insensitive clod, assume I can’t conceive of an emotional thought, attack my character because it’s the last pleasure you’ve got, but despite what you think, I won’t leave you to rot. It may not be an alignment of paths or anything as grandiose as that, but I’m insulted by the crass lack of impact my past patience, love and healing hands have had – that doesn’t mean I’m not still your kid’s dad, nor does it mean it all must be bad, but rather that we have not yet earned enough of each other’s trust back to functionally discuss the issues at hand and both of us should be facing reprimands for our lack of command over our actions and use of intentionality, inappropriately ascribed our mistakes to each other’s personality.

I’m not better than, better off than you, or trying to pull one over on you. I am simply different than you in ways people don’t choose, but can choose to work through if it doesn’t help them along their way. Yet some of the flaws you most deeply sank your claws into are those that give me pause when asked to give up. They are what got me through intact and continuing after repeated abuse, love and loss, and now you’re telling me they’re of no real use other than just to keep you away? Parlez fuck you? The shear magnitude of your attitude towards the domain of emotion and pain are enough to make me wish to refrain from even thinking of stating a claim around you, for it may be perceived as a complaint and LORD KNOWS that’s a realm in which you’ve staked your claim.

Pardon me, I’m getting too critical and I don’t want to be hypocritical so I will reign it in and feign a faint feint and no longer make you wait, this piece is done; you likely still don’t grasp what I say and think that I am scummy and dumb, but to hell with it, my present is the only one I run.

Operations

These aberrations of operations which comprise my interlocutions are abortions of portions of my tortured psyche; psychologically provocatively pathetic and unapologetic with an adverse aesthetic, but somehow still energetic and perpetually kinetic, as though making a move is the only tool proven to shift the mood and lift it from depressive. If all goes well, it might turn out impressive, or it may be a sour roundabout regressive hellish pattern leaving me blind but responsible for the lantern.

Either way I’d way rather play than stay in an abated habitation wherein I’m too absorbed in situation and would best be left to my vocational station but face my daily and ungrimacing obligations with a sense of self-fulfilled retribution and soul-earned reparations.

Not to suggest my life is pestering me or that I would better spread other seeds or rest and let what is sown grow to be, but rather that I aim to avoid conflagration of terms which can be heard and used to disturb the herd but rarely is much thought put in to the reality of words in the hurly-burly and stop, drop and burn of awakening life, that earning in any real way is suffering and pain.

 

Trans-Dimensional Faces

Telling the truth in no uncertain fashion, his feelings and flaws were splattered on the ceilings and walls and wound up splashing on the disdaining faces of trans-dimensional beings in shopping malls. Revealing a misleading tactic for a teeming lack of applause for such dubious cause, and effectively selectively deeming the seeming reality a clause within a clause and insisting on a pause to rip up the deceptive contract. No you will not collect on me, no you will not violently “protect” in these names you bring to shame, no you will not possess me, no individual, state or individual state shall stake a claim on me and my vast hypocrisy of an apocryphy; no you will not make me a false promise of democracy nor will you say that the damage is hard to see when it comes down to you not me. Second thought, hold up a sec, I will accept your help, for a fee, could you maybe write a cheque? We’ve been redeeming vouchers and seeing no savings, cashing in coupons only still to be scraping by behind the poverty line, which would be fine under better times, but not when you’re already out of your mind. Wait in line for E.I. only to be denied, go to school only to be deprived of the time, go to work only to be fired in your prime, it’s amazing that some people are even alive. Care for your child, nourish your mind, somehow between college and respite find the time to identify a real sense of “I”, or at the very least be pleased to remember how to see through the mind’s eye; but in this great battle we seem to have lost a key ally. It might be bleak, but let it be what it is and weep not for sleep will do in its place, so get back to splattering flaws on trans-dimensional faces of pan-centennial ancestral races. Just don’t forget it’s best if we clean up our own messes.