What Are You?

Just a sliver
So who else needs to know?
Nothing from this world broke my fall

Who else saw then decided don’t believe?
They would never think to brace their soul
Not for my screams,
Not for their own

Overwhelmed by all the death life needs
What are you, to not wither in fear?
When you hear of the murders every one of us will see
And not wince at a thought of our agony

After we’ve had to wait; after we’ve had to lose it all
After we’ve had to die beneath these ruined walls
Admit we don’t care for the faceless and lost

After and worthless for everything we cost


The painting is recent. I worked on it with great frustration – was a really bad week at the time and on top of it I had no idea where I was taking this image. Looking at it now I’m reminded of the words “lashing out” for the anger and irritation if comes from. And the poem just reflects one of those really off days where people and human nature and the unwillingness some have of putting themselves in another’s shoes creates a mess of thoughts and sick feeling. So I just wrote.

To this day I don’t consider myself as one with any skill or honest ability here. I write but nothing is good enough to me- there’s never enough color or direction. I draw and paint, but I still feel like a fool trying something she shouldn’t try. A silly beginner with limits still boxing her in tight. So, what am I? When I feel terrible being told I’m “good” at something – I don’t allow myself to see it. That’s too kind. I realize what drives me further is seeing how much of the bad I can take. How far I can take the self-deprivation and endure the pain. Reaching too far, meeting that and still going further. Something about that appeals to me greatly. I’m self-destructive and like knowing I’m doing damage. It’s all my own and for all the constructive projects I try and channel my thoughts and feelings through – it’s the destruction I can’t turn away from.

Maybe I hope from the complete ruin will come something better and stronger, more lasting…Or maybe I only want a way out of my skin. A permanent way out of my sick mind and this sick world. Who really knows. Doesn’t matter any how.

1 Comment

Filed under Life

One response to “Spark

  1. Caine

    “To this day I don’t consider myself as one with any skill or honest ability here.”

    You know, I try to write, and be creative, but it seems to me all my attempts are just collections of strung-together images that pass through my head like shadows that have no substance (what is casting those shadows, exactly?). Your writing, though, seems to me to be imbued with meaning, an actual interpretation of your experience integrated into your verse, which is something I feel my writing completely lacks. Like the poem you present here – the whole theme of human selfishness is expressed so well. So I always enjoy reading your verse. (And you already know how I feel about your paintings.)

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