The promise of love
Is not enough
The preception of comfort
Is not enough
Everytime I hope
You crush it
You make me feel
Can it just be enough
For me to give up
On the idea of us?
The you I love
Is nothing but
And that is
Filter and control are marvelous things that can make you lost in your own mind like no other.
Introspection on what I have thus far written has recently made me realize how filtered all my writings are, how fluffy. Even in madness, I need to find a beauty, a rhyme, a metaphor that makes all the ugly go away and only touches the monstrous rearing head of those negative feelings that lie beneath the surface. An old friend once told me you’re too controlled, your writing is like you: beautiful, witty but guarded-avoiding what really bugs you, afraid to let people know the side of you that’s not always sunshine and roses, to let them see there’s a human behind the smiling imp. A human that feels things probably more than most. I didn’t understand him then but now I do. Life IS gritty and while we can control emotions we can’t control our situations or avoid them forever.
And sometimes we can’t control our situations OR our emotions. But it’s always a scary thing, trying to open up and feel, trying not to avoid, trying to let people know you feel so intensely because it takes away a power. A lonely power that eats at you, but a power nonetheless. Honestly, if anyone’s reading this, there is no end to this rant-no summation that ties my thoughts up in a nice bow- it’s an errant collection of thought accumulating to a bunch of sentences I write here. Mostly because right now my thoughts are all over the place, some metamorphosing as I write.
At this point, I don’t know how to go from here from fluffy to reality but acknowledgement is the first step right?
There is something poetic about a pure soul, for it has the ability and strength to hope beyond hope. It’s not jaded nor burdened with the sins of the commoner, too plagued by shame to hope for better days.
A pure soul hopes and prays that the jaded soul may once again find its way, while the jaded soul worries that the pure soul may one day feel the hopelessness that drove it astray from the path in the first place.
In the art of growing up, I am a Picasso at best.