New, but old really

The appointment yesterday won’t keep me from moving forward with the training, but it did open up a lot of shame  that I thought was being let go. It was like the lady was trying to tell me I was not the kind of person for this program, let alone the actual job, based on everything I don’t have. I already know how sorry my life looks on the outside, that’s the whole damn reason I’m doing any of this at all.

Worrying about the training has not pulled me away from writing though. I have to finish these poems, just for a sense of closure. So that if and when I do start classes, I won’t feel so tempted to escape away from studying, or whatever else I’ll have to do.

These here are not the best of the newer ones (actually, none of the new ones are better. I think I’ve already written the best I can do…), but they all have some kind of little point.  I haven’t had a lot of confidence in what I’ve written lately, so even as these may be terrible, they took a while to edit. I can’t think very well right now…..

The Guise


You give more than take

Forced smiles for the other’s sake

All’s well; pretend a steady mind

Lose yourself within each lie


But clearly, something’s not alright

If they must ask a thousandth time

Are you okay? You say ‘just fine’

With heavy, cold and shadowed eyes


Giving so much, for this life you hate

Those guilt ridden wounds you create

Are more than screams, more than escape

More than moods you can’t explain


What’s false is broken willingly

For truth can breathe, beneath the bleed

From all distractions you may try

Remains, the rotting sick inside 

(Untitled still…)

Blood, ink quotes

Soaked envelope,

A deep, lifeless fold


Set in stone

And laid in show

Entries to be told


The moon’s glow

Of farewell low

A past is in close


Still and cold

The end is so; hushed

Departs the soul




Shadow I’ve become, the

Worst is no longer enough

My patience, rope to string

In honest gestures of defeat


As good was small and clean

Harmless and hidden well

Yet, I favor the sweet gleam

Of great damage and depth


An open wrist for judgment

My numb and listless form

Restless with an expert edge, 

Smeared across the floor is the 


Gore of strengthened voices,

Of self destructive noises that

Emptied every lie; I’m soaked

In punishment and crime


            Same old ideas, I know. I can’t break myself away.  

1 Comment

Filed under depression, Life, personal, poems, poetry, Thoughts

One response to “New, but old really

  1. lucienlachance

    I think it’s good to finish things. I know that for me personally, I always feel a sense of accomplishment after I finish something, even if it did not turn out quite the way I originally imagined.

    “The Guise” is so perfect. It’s something I can really relate to, because it’s what I’ve done every day of my life. It seems as though interacting with others is nothing but pretending again and again. Just lying so that you can get through it, and hoping that no one will notice. And in the beginning, like you said, I did it to protect other people. For their sake, so to speak. Now I do it so that I won’t get locked away in a hospital somewhere.

    With the untitled one, I think I get what you mean. Writing your feelings on your body? Like a journal almost, a testament to all the crazy emotions that go through you sometimes. I’ve always thought of blood as something of certainty. Whenever I get a new journal, I usually write my name in it with blood, as though to seal it to me. It’s sort of like a ritual. The last part I interpreted as the end…basically. The slashes sealing the deal, being the final suicide note left behind. Is that what you meant?

    “Inflict” is very blatant, which is unsual for your poetry. I understand your desperation, wanting to have enough gall to just do it. It’s something I get angry at myself for, both for wanting it and not being able to do it.

    I think if something haunts you, as this topic seems to, it means that there is more left to write, more left to figure out. It may seem the same to you, the writing, but each time I read it, it is new to me. I think we feel as though we dwell and bore others or something, like we are repeating the same things over and over, but in reality we are not. We may be mulling over our feelings day in, day out, but to someone else it is an entirely different perspective even if the subject matter is something that they personally can relate to. It’s literally hearing a completely different voice, and it lends new meaning. I learn things from what you write, not just about you, but myself. So it is never old, not really. It is always new to someone else.

    I wish you wouldn’t be plagued by such thoughts, but I know that if you can draw something from it, then it is not always just a bad thing. There are things to love in darkness, but the key is simply dwelling in it, residing in it, rather than becoming it.

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