I'm not a poet.

This is nothing more or less than a rant of sorts.

I battle daily with my quest to understand not only my existence, but my creative purpose. Writing has been a drug for me ever since my frustrated mother gave me my first journal when I was 7 years old. She didn't know how to help me with my "anger issues" and someone told her that would be a good idea. I mean, what do you do to help a small child with no understanding or reason why she is so frustrated with the world? And so, I began journaling. Daily. Religiously. And within a month or so, my mother started perusing my pages. Most of the time she'd find whatever it was that she was looking for and it'd satisfy her for a while. A pat on the head coupled with a accepting smile, and life was good. For her. For me, however, the paper became a crutch, an appendage. I could barely go a full day without daydreaming about how I would "let them all have it" (in written form, of course) as soon as I got home to my pretty cotton candy pink sanctuary with the grape sno-cone colored plushy carpet.

And then one day, the Rage.

It was during that desolate time of year between Christmas and Easter, probably somewhere around that Cupid's card holiday that I started contemplating my own existence, as well as the existence of an Afterlife or our human understanding of said post-corporeal existence. I discovered four little words that would forever change my relationship with not only my mother, but the world at large: "I Want To Die."

In my mind, was I angry? Yes. Was I suicidal? No. Not even remotely close. I had already been contemplating the eternal versus the transient nature of our bodies, when I just had a really bad day. I finally let loose the thoughts that I had been holding back. I was systematically testing the limits of my own physical boundaries, as well as the intelligent understandings of my eight rotations around the Sun. But, all creative geniuses have their antithesis. Mine just happened to be the Birth-Giver. And She was not happy while flipping the pages that day, I can assure you.

...So what does this have to do with not being a poet?

I have a "Collection of Poetry" blog. I have volumes of poetry in paper journals. I have poetic artwork that flows from my poetic fingertips. But in essence, I am a Philosopher. I write cryptically because it is safer to be cryptic than to let it all flow freely for the general population to slip in.

Be Forewarned...

Some of the pieces in my collection are raw.

All of them are from my soul.

If you can't handle expletives, emotion or true life, please don't read any further, because I don't want to be told that I am "XYZ..." because of the language in my writing. If nothing else, I am authentic. What the masses are afraid to say aloud, I speak clearly for us all.

pissed for the fall (13 mar 09)

Make it stop. Just go. All the memories; all the fantasies; Go Away. Pain, Pain Go Away. Go Fuck Yourself and bleed to death, I am sick of you haunting me. I want to be whole and you can't stay here with me so why don't you go torture someone else. Leave me be! Pain, pain -- go fucking drown. I don't care when, just get there now. Fuck this life and all the ones who tried for all these years to keep me down! I hate you all for what you've done. You're bags o' shit, watch you run like chocolate milk when the rain pours down. You can't help me cuz you called in the rain. Kiss my ass stupid fucked up brain of mine. I wish you'd atrophy, oh wait, then I'd die... Eh fuck it. I'm ok with that, I guess. Better than dealing with all this mess. Fuck you world, you don't own me! (I wish that were true...oh damn, Fuck Me)

breaking down (12 mar 09)

Anything. Nothing. Something. Everything.
Dehydration eroding any meager
assemblance of life thriving.

exhaustion. fall past your knees,
straight to the feet. assemble a grand
mass at the base of thine eyes.

helter skelter bo belter, and
all the pretty horses,
pack a ring of roses,
then all calm down.