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[kingpissantpoetry-blog]

Repression

I try to meditate when I pee.

I try to disconnect myself from the world around me.

Feeling the air flow in and out of my body,

Down to the tiniest atom.

I can feel the blood pulsate around my body,

It’s warm flow filling my capillaries with love.

No longer do I smell the reeks of piss from the bathroom I’m standing in,

And suddenly I’m something more.

I’ve gone within myself.

It’s black. Across from me is a boy in a chair. He beckons me to join him.

I try to walk over, but I realize my body is floating.

I glide over to his chair, and as I get closer I see someone I recognize.

Someone I’ve seen countless times, but can’t say I’ve ever met.

It’s me. The me I’ve seen countless times in the pictures lying around my house.

The me I once was. The me I say no longer am.

But the me that will always be apart of my whole.

His smile expands as I float closer.

“You don’t want to see me, do you?”

I try to force words out of my mouth, but I can’t form a sound.

“It’s okay. I don’t want to see you either.”

He slowly fades as I try to call to him.

And as soon as his essence disappears, my body convulses!

My eyes open wide as my pupils expand, I can feel them become bloodshot.

My left eye lets out a lone tear in protest.

Tear.

I’m crying.

And suddenly I’m no longer in that void. I’m in the first grade.

I’m in the bathroom. My friends has ran away.

I was 6, I didn’t know what I was feeling!

Or how the fuck a person deals with any sort of anxiety!

I had no idea that my fears of being alone would suddenly manifest,

That my friends running would lead me to that first panic attack!

I pulled up my shorts and ran out of the bathroom bawling,

All the way back to the class where my friends were.

Only to hear a chorus of laughter, as I saw poop smearing down my leg.

So I kept crying.

I’m in the eighth grade, standing before my grandfather’s casket.

I’d never lost anyone before. I was in shock.

I felt as though I had to feel a certain way.

I’d lost someone important in my life, and I didn’t know how to feel!

What kind of disgusting person was I!?

I looked around, and saw my dad crying.

I’d never seen him cry.

He’d spent my whole life trying to convince me that he was something that he wasn’t.

He wasn’t emotionless. He was a person.

I could have been there to comfort him.

Instead I was caught up within myself, wondering why I wasn’t a good enough person.

I didn’t know. I could have just felt what I felt.

Deliberation is meaningless.

All I could do was cry.

It’s ninth grade. I have a plastic bag over my head. I put it down.

I can’t. I cry in relief.

It’s tenth grade. I’m opening up to my dad about being suicidal.

He refuses to believe me. He claims I’m bullshitting as he destroys things around the house.

All I could say in response was to cry.

It’s eleventh grade. I’m in a much better space.

I try not to talk about my past, I’m not emotionally prepared to do so.

My mom keeps asking questions. I refuse to answer.

My dad is screaming, demanding an answer.

I’m not prepared to talk about who I once was.

I cry and scream as I talk about the days I could only fall asleep by thinking about my death.

It’s twelfth grade.

I’m in bed with a girl I had broken up with in December.

She wants to have sex. I don’t.

But I’m too weak to say no.

And as I’m thrusting up and down atop her body, I realize my childhood is over.

Innocence is dead. Poetry is lost.

Any wonder I had once seen in the world slowly escaped from my senses.

With each thrust into her body I felt myself become more of a husk.

So I quit. I tell her I don’t want to do it anymore.

Dejected, she gets up and leaves. I cry for hours.

My white walls had never felt so gray.

To think that I could ever believe in beauty again astounds me.

Because I felt it leave. I thought it wouldn’t come back.

I had always thought there was some poetic message behind every tear.

But there isn’t. It’s just an expression of intense emotion.

And no matter how much I cried, nothing would change that.

But the pee stops flowing.

I’m back in the bathroom.

[kingpissantpoetry-blog]

Self-destruction & freedom.

An onlooker could almost feel the pelt of the hail,

Taking in the sounds it made against the handrail,

As a disheveled man stood atop the stairs,

Shivering, as ice formed around the tips of his hairs.

He couldn’t have known, but he had an hour to live.

Better make it worth it.

Whether or not I deserve it is irrelevant.

To answer the question I certainly can’t.

Not that anyone deserves anything,

As we’re all doomed to be radically free.

And that freedom scares me.

I don’t trust myself to make decisions,

I can’t, I just screw everything up.

I’m happy for a while, and I burn it all down,

Like the self-destructive person I am.

I’m a slave to my passions, and that slavery

Is what will doom me.

A second man entered atop the roof.

His hands were wrapped around vial in his pockets,

As he marched closer to the disheveled man.

A mix of anxiety and excitement overtook the face of the disheveled man.

Sometimes he prayed that no one would come,

And he could finally be free.

As if the dealer was the one that created his dependance.

Everything he had done of his own volition,

Even in that small moment, he had the power to run.

And the fact that he didn’t proved his prayers to be

Nothing more than easy justification for why

He continued on into his downward spiral.

When I look in the mirror, what do I see?

A liar. A narcissist. An autist. Someone no one would want to be around.

Yet I sat in the basement of that building, with the two

Girls I had feelings for, playing with my hair, asking to hook up.

I had to pick one.

No, I could pick both. I had been offered a three way!

Like the autist I am, I sat there with my thumb up my ass,

Trying to avoid any kind of agency in my decisions.

But when a person is free, and they have to make a choice.

And trying to make no choice, is a choice within itself.

So I picked.

With the last few dollars he had, the man paid for the vial.

He took it into his own pocket and walked off.

He owed too much money. He would be dead within a week.

If he were to die, at least he could do it on his own terms.

He was free, after all.

I wish life was a game. Even in games claiming to be all about choice,

You can still reload a save and remake that same choice.

Maybe a cartoon flower will call you a bitch,

But at least you saved a life.

Being able to go through every choice to pick the best outcome…

What a lovely fantasy.

Because now I ponder, have I doomed myself?

Doomed to be alone, ashamed of my previous actions.

Must I put myself on a personal leash?

Never to meddle in the affairs of others?

Have I made anyone’s life better?

So many have made mine, but I doubt I could ever say the same.

So I have to stop.

I can’t continue to be self-destructive.

Half an hour had passed, the man was back in his room.

He laid on his bed, with his eyes closed.

A syringe was stuck in his arm.

He made no attempt to pull it out, he knew he wouldn’t

Come out of this alive.

As his consciousness faded, he thought of his life.

Was it a good one?

He saw his loving family, his happy childhood,

How everything had been great.

He had a future. He had people that cared.

He was the happy child that would make you smile on the street.

But his freedom had lead him down this path instead.

His agency had doomed him.

His final thought was an incoherent jumble of pictures and symbols,

But to him, it represented inescapable regret.

And a once happy child died on a bed bug ridden mattress, with a heroin needle sticking out his 

Arm.

But the beauty of agency is that for as much as you have the power to fuck up,

You have the power to make things right.

Until the day my body ceases to move, I will always have the power to be good.

And no matter the situation I find myself in,

I can do the right thing.

Not out of obligation, but love.

Love for those around me, and love for all those I know that care about me.

I used the story of the addict to illustrate how petty my problems are.

Like the addict, my problems stem from my freedom and self-destruction.

But I have not fucked up enough to where I can’t come back.

Until I too feel the lustful desire to die in a crack den on heroin,

I’ll be free.

That freedom may be good, it may be terrible, but both possibilities exist.

And no matter how much I destroyed one night,

I can try my best to make it right in the morning.

I may be told to fuck off, and things may never be the same,

But I can never strip my freedom.

[kingpissantpoetry-blog]

The Aswan Dam

The bells ring, as the fertile season begins.

The Nile slips over the floodplain, and the water trickles down the

Sandy hills of Egypt.

The river wasn’t going to stay frozen forever.

I think the summer has a way of making things seem better than they are,

Like that time I made a stupid joke in the back seat of my dad’s car.

Maybe it’s the warm air that makes it all okay,

or the lack of responsibility carried throughout the day.

Because during those long, hot days, everything is right.

Winter’s long gone, not even the plants have to fight.

And that’s what made everything so special,

We couldn’t hear the impending ring of the bell.

But the cold autumn air never hit harder,

Leaving behind all the warm ardor.

The summer has a way of making you think you can escape it all,

but you can’t.

All those months later, and real life resumes, it consumes, makes you think glooms, felt deep within tombs and wombs.

It doesn’t matter what you hear, nothing’s perfect.

I’m certainly not, not that I’m a prime example.

I guess I’ve come to learn that shit never works out,

no matter how much I’ve ever wanted it to.

Life moves into a rhythm, of build-up and let down, and I guess I’d

Built this one up for so long I didn’t realize how much the letdown would hurt.

Not that I knew.

Because I never do.

Let me take you back, to a time more innocent, December 2015.

My prolonged exposure to TV sitcoms made me think,

maybe things are just black and white.

I mean, when every outside pressure is just telling you to do it,

To, “Just rip off that band-aid, Devon!”

It’ll make things that way.

In the days before, and the days after, I felt it.

That sitcom feeling, that “Hey, it all works out!”

Ignoring all that happened the day of.

But the Nile floods, year after year.

The Egyptian’s couldn’t control it, so how could I?

Did I make a mistake? Did I? Did I?

What had I done? What did I do?

But I knew.

I knew.

See, a choice isn’t black and white. There are upsides and downsides to every decision ever made. There’s something to gain, and something to lose. Always. And those of you that know what I’ve been talking about, through my subtle and not so subtle clues, may think I did what I did as some black and white, pure dick move. But this was just as complicated as any hard choice you’ve ever had to make in your life. But ask anyone who knows the whole story, I tried to do the right thing, for everyone involved. And don’t think for a second that anything I did was fucking easy. And I’m okay with what I did.

Is what I wish I could say.

I wasn’t ready for January.

Everything, all of it. What happened after.

The fear, the pain, the never ending anxiety.

The looks, the glares, and having to hear second hand that people I may have considered close Friends once hated me know.

Knowing that maybe the decision I made was better for both of us, but still having to rationalize That in the process I crushed someone.

And in it all, I crushed myself.

And when you’re crushed, it’s easy to let your life fall apart.

I fell into a depression that I’m still barely crawling out of.

From the minute I came back to this school, I’ve made so many mistakes.

And this Hell I’m in now, there is no escape.

The Nile’s dried up, the crops are dead,

The dam destroyed all the water it bled.

All there is is endless distress.

I just need help to clean up this mess.