I'm not lonely anymore.
I feel no more hopelessness.
I don't yearn.
Those teary eyes are dry now.
While lips smirk.
Sadness lies crumpled on the floor.
Left not gone.
And that impotence still lurks.
Calls itself indifference andApathy.
Even with the best intentions my poetry always sound pretentious. It's hard to make it flow and I pretend counting syllables is a substitute for actual knowledge and talent. I wanted to write about how I wanted to die earlier tonight, but that's when I realized I don't feel anything anymore. It passed. It always does. But in the same time that ever-present feeling of uselessness has not left me. I tried stabbing my arm with the tweezers, but it was as useless as I knew it would be. It would hurt to break the skin, so I just pressed hard, it almost seemed as if the tweezers were disappearing into my arm, but it's just the elasticity of the flesh. It's nothing.
Taking that metal and pressing against the skin is just a symbolic act. The pathetic lack of potency symbolic of the impotence in every aspect of my life.
It's supposed to be a display, an artwork, an expression of pain, of anguish. It's supposed to be fucking exquisite. You're suppose to look at that blood and feel my pain, not just sense the pretense of the whole thing, intuit the scaffolding of the stage the play is set on. You are supposed to see something real. Something that's actually happening. Not the ambivalent, somewhat shaky self-loathing and apathetic self-hate that I can muster.
Take the main character of Cut , she shows some real determination, taking the furniture apart at her mental institution to find a metal edge to cut herself with. What did I do? I scraped my arm with a plastic fork. Even though I have access to better tools. Even the nurse scoffed.
Crank is so fucked up, she only makes it back in her Mommy's imagination. The real Crank disappeared into a world of heavy drug use, and left her newborn with her parents. Now that's some seriously self-hating behaviour. Too good for the amateurs like me.