Humanity

The greatest threat to my humanity is my human nature.

Practicality seeks to ruin kindness;
Jealousy seeks to ruin love;
Desire seeks to ruin commitment.
Depression taints everything I know and love with whatever horrible images my imagination can dream up;
And rage seeks to ruin everything.

Where is the humanity in that?

It is all around me. In every human face I behold.

Everyday we must fight ourselves to overcome our nature,
or at least reach a comfortable middle ground with it.

In my early years I dreamt of the noble knight I would be in my prime.
I laid out all the plans and all the ground work to built a knight.

Now I am war-torn. No nobility is here.
Only exhaustion, pain, fear, practicality, jealousy, desire, depression, rage and complacency.
Only hopelessness.

Yet I fight on, as the shreds of my once gleaming armor of plans, beliefs, morals, fall around me.
Only logic and love saves me from the sword, from the fall.

One day, when my love was gone, when logic told me to accept the sword, I decided I would die.
I planned to die upon my return from battle.
When it would less severely effect the fight of my fellow soldiers.

I begged my love to return, and she did. I pushed the logic away.

Now I try my best to forget my humanity.
To work and fight as a cold machine without this wall of problematic emotions.
I cannot die yet, for her sake.

In the dark precipice I am in, the only thing I trust to help me climb out
is this cord of love that ties me to someone above.

But weary as I am I cough and stall and cling to the rope without moving an inch.
I must not give way to the invading complacency.
The weight of my useless armor,
of the depression laden tears that have soaked my clothes,
of the dirt that I have lived in for years,
all drag me down.
All pull me toward my death.

God, please give me the strength to climb.

Pale Pixie Dust

I enjoy smoking in the sun,
Cigarette or joint.
Taking a break in the fresh air,
Fresh air quickly made sour by smoke.
Flicking and watching the white ash blow away on a light breeze like glimmering pixie dust.
Terrible, carcinogenic, cancer-causing pixie dust.
The magic of a joint making the colours of the world brighter,
Or the simple magic of a cigarette moving me from the frantic fear and emotional turmoil...
To simply the somber realization that I'm a pitiful pixie, but at least I've found some way to put magic back into this dark and less-than-extraordinary life I lead.

There used to be so much magic in the world around me.
So long ago, but I still feel the stark absence.
Though now, three years from my last truly magical experience,
Though it itself was merely a reprieve from the absence, I'm numb to the sting.
I suppose that's just growing up though.

It all goes grey.
It all grows cold.
The pixies leave our warm happy heads.

Though some still alight on my work laden hands,
To smolder between my cold fingers and release their magic only when flicked.

 

Who am I?

Who do I want to be?

Who am I becoming?

What have I become?

What is changing me?

What can help me change?

What is wrong with me?

What can I blame all of these thought and ideas and feelings on?

I have only two answers for all of these questions.

"I don't know."

and

"Nothing but myself."

Neither are satisfying.

jealousy

Here we are again, so that I can whine.

Ah, the internet, so much like God.

There to talk to when you know nobody really wants to here about your many faults or miseries.
Or when the things you have to say feel so wrong as they cross your lips that you can't bare to say them to another human being.

I feel jealous. Jealous of someone who I would have considered morally in the wrong not long ago, and perhaps still do, for the hazy things I imagine he did with because I know things went on and she's told me the general flavour of the occurrence. I'm jealous of the morally wrong things he might have done, the things that I wanted and still want to do. It's interesting how the mix of alcohol and someone feeling sad made me follow her around like a puppy dog.

Talking to her about the one she was jealous of and how she had "liked" him for quite some time. How she thought they were making out and was jealous when in fact he was explaining that he was too old for the one she was jealous of. A conversation repeated when he returned inside and she snapped at him before heading outside. A conversation I would no longer engage in if engaged by her, though I think I might be a year older than he is. I saw the hicky she gave the one I am jealous of. She said today that she regretted not going to bed before 5:30, citing that she was tired. I had heard the same comment yesterday, the day after the party. But today she added that she probably would have taken him to bed had she done so earlier and that she had still wanted to even at the late hour. Something I thought she was still to young to consider.

I think she suspects my sickness. I have broken the personal space bubble many times in our sibling like bothering of one another. I think she suspects why. We are effectively siblings for the next four months. She lays in bed not more than 30ft from me while thoughts of us torture me in the minutes before sleep.

I used to think I was just a sad person who kept on thinking there was something wrong with him when really he was normal. So worried and ashamed that I was normal and just wasn't coping well. I suppose I'm like the poet man in that sense. Yet now there is definitely something very fucking wrong with me. I've been waiting for it to manifest itself for years. No matter how many times I've vented the bottle I keep it all in has ever increased in pressure. Now it bulges into my mental visibility. Threatening rupture, though not yet.

And yet it seems that every normal person I meet has had feelings and thoughts that lust after suicide at one point or another. That's what it is: a lust. A strong and carnal lust to take pleasure without regard for those others it would affect. I know one day I'll give in. No it wont be today, nor tomorrow, almost certainly not this year. But for years I've known that eventually I'm going to do it. It's an eventuality, one that I'm always putting off for the sake of those around me. "Suicide is one of the most selfish acts a person can undertake" is the contention of my mother and the ideal that kept me on that fourth story balcony all those years ago, that and the fear that I would survive.

Now I hope I haven't given too much away. For her to know would undermine the trust I'm trying to build for legitimate reasons. She says her parents didn't want her at birth an probably still don't, she's met the people she was almost given away to. I want to fix her. God damn it why do I always want to fix people with kisses? Because it actually gives me the power, respect and mutual trust to shape them into the better image I see for them, that's why, that's clearly why, I only asked because it's causing problems. Her and her mother bicker and bitch at each other far too much. It only makes both of there lives more difficult why don't they see that? Or if they do then why not act on it?

It's all in my head, or so Kerrie said to me the one time it got out and I dragged my limbs across her clothing willing it to be gone, only to have her tell me no and me to revert to a tear drenched mess curled in the fetal position on my bed. Not because she wouldn't have me but because I had let him out in an attempt to be rid of him. All in my head.

If only I could cut it out.

No Kerrie and I aren't broken up. No I haven't spoken to her about this yet. No I don't want you to tell her.
No I'm not satisfied with our relationship anymore. No I'm not ready to give it up yet. No I'm not dangerous.
No I'm not smart. No I'm not cool. No I don't fit in anywhere. No, most don't find out any of this out about me.

I wear a very convincing mask for the greater good. I remain in a somber logical mood nearly always for the greater good.

I'm not trying new drugs for the greater good though. It was stupid and I rationalize that its to get the young and reckless out of my system so I can become old and wise but I suspect that I'm really doing it in a hope of getting anything into my system that will cause it to stop functioning the was it has for all these semi-miserable years.

I'm a revolting piece of shit, but aren't we all. Maybe only through my eyes.

I just want that first feeling of love again. Of fresh love. Of love before I had had sex. Of that pure and strong new desire to be around someone just because they make you feel better. They make you feel like the world is wonderful and inspire you with hope that maybe you can actually make a difference in it. That you can make it a better place. Not the quiet, loving companionship and trust that has taken three years to build and I am taking extraordinarily excessive advantage of, but the new, edgey, unsure, you-and-me-can-take-on-the-world-and-win kind of excitement.

I don't want to go into physics. It's the most interesting thing I've ever even considered but it wont make me happy. I should be out in the world trying to make a difference. Trying to improve the quality of the shitty lives so many human beings live. Yet pragmatically I don't want to save lives because I know that the more people alive the more impossible it will be to improve the general quality of life. It's quality not quantity.

I'm a sad, disturbed little boy who still can't bare the thought of growing up but finds himself in the skin and mindset of a twenty year old every morning.

I have betrayed the morals I held for so long. I have betrayed the trust of one who I still dearly love. I have betrayed my potential to dedicate myself to helping other people on this planet. I have betrayed you, for though I post this on public forum I don't want anyone to know. to know of this wretched thing that I am. I just need someone to know but I plead you tell no-one else. I betray the parts of me that are screaming and begging that I not post this.

Finally I feel the tears flow freely, though only briefly, and I know they will abate far too soon. See all done. I know they haven't helped. People say you feel better after a cry, but I think it is only another coping mechanism which will not relieve the pressure inside me. Now though I do feel better, temporarily, my mistress Misery leaves to freshen up in the washroom while I put on my public face.

Yet she was the one who penned my poetry, when I could still write it. Now lack of practice caused by lack of desire brings me regret. Misery will no longer make love with me, but lays in bed and hopes in these brief moments I will again clamor atop her and show some kind of prowess to alleviate her boredom. Instead I lay and talk, wishing she were more convincing in her act of innocence. She is dirty, bored, and without a pure desire anymore, just like me.

Well, back to the mask and the mirror. Maybe I'll believe myself this time.

Roadside Garbage (because it needed a name)

Why am I here?
This is no longer a place for poetry,
This is a place for my insatiable cynicism, rage and misery.
This is not poetry, this is not real life, this is the foam that spills from my head when I boil over.

Shes dead,
dead.
Did it herself apparently.
I don't know if there was a note.
I don't know if there was a definite reason.

(to which was all say "well there must have been something")
I don't know her.
I've seen her face.
Seen it before today that is.
In person, though not in conversation.
Not in conversation with me anyways.
I know her sister.
Vaguely.
and now shes dead.

Fuck.

What are my accomplishments worth,
That 75 on Chemistry,
That 83 on Calc,

Garbage.

and now shes dead.

I always say I'm so busy,
and I am,
I say I try really hard,
and I do,
I think I'm a good person,
and I'm not,

or perhaps I am and people just aren't human anymore.

I hate it.
She killed herself and I am disgusted.
With her circle of influential people,
With myself,
With her.

I could have spent every moment of my life saving her.
I needed to save her,
And I didn't.
I should spend every moment of my life saving you,
and I know you're probably not reading this,
but I know you.
Or at least some of you.
I should be finding you and fixing you and saving you.
But I wont.
I'm too busy.
God, its almost like my affairs are life and death.
How else could I put them so far above the lives of other people.

And even now I fall prey to the infection that allowed this to happen,
I, like so many, throw people away like roadside garbage.
And no matter how often I see them I am reluctant to pick them up and take them to the place they belong.
Even now its all about me.

Drama Queen.

and by asserting it,
by bringing it to attention,
I have only further confirmed it.

I want to do so much but I wont because I am lazy and scared.

I'm busy doing the thing I love instead of the thing I need to do.

We are all in the wrong unless we are the dying with no one helping us.

My tuition could save hundreds of lives.

And shes dead and I should have stopped it.

If you are going to do the same thing just call me
289 253 0035
I`m Jayden McLean, and I give a fuck,

just not enough to come find you,

but thats more than most,
and it sickens me.

If I don`t answer then call 905 692 9515, and just tell them why you`re calling, they`re my family. I don`t know if they care as much as I do, but tell them about this page, tell them that
"I demand you help this person on the phone, right now they are more important than anything, they are more important than anything you are doing, thinking, reading, planning to do. You need to pretend they were me, if I called you like this what would you do. Good, now do that."

It's all about me.
I'm trying to make myself feel better.
She's dead and I'm offended this was allowed to happen.

She's dead... and I'm offended?
How asinine is that?
I'm offended.

I'm garbage.
BUT WHY AM I TALKING ABOUT ME AGAIN!

A girl is dead and I don't give a fuck because all that matters to me is me!

Wow, I never thought I would be normal.
Fuck this.

This place.
This feeling.
This world.
This story.
This death, this hate, this loathing, this misery, this failure this anger this heartbreak this sadness this love this society this people thisthis this this this thing I think morality is this code I think we should all follow which says that THIS. this should never happen.

I would give anything to save you Emily.
I have never met you, but, short of another's life, I would give anything.

And i didn't give enough of a ....
I didn't find you.
I'm so so sorry.

I treated you like roadside garbage, like I treat everyone else.

And now you're dead.
And I can do nothing.
Except write this self indulgent epitaph which says nearly nothing about you.

I'm sorry.

But that just doesn't cut it does it.

It doesn't bring you back.

It doesn't help your family.

It doesn't even let the world know that this is so wrong.

That this is all wrong.

All it does is say that I'm all wrong, using you as an example.

You are the example to inductively prove we are all wrong.

maybe you didn't know the problem of induction, I learned it in that worthless philosophy class of mine.

You can't prove uniformity of nature,

can't prove the future will be like the past.

That gives me hope.

Your life can't have ended on a happy or peaceful note, so if nothing else,
If there is something beyond this shithole we're stuck in,
I hope you now have the chance to take a break and rest,
Not have to deal with this bullshit anymore,

I hope it's peaceful where you are Emily Jerome.

And God if you're out there take all the peace from my life and give it to her now. If that's allowed.

I accept full responsability for her death.
I wan't even trying to save her.

I never met you Emily, but I miss you so much already.

You left my life abruptly today, at the same moment you entered it. And you left a little hole.

I've learned to make them little.

I'm so sorry I failed you.

I don't want to be forgiven.
I cried a little for you.
I know it will never be enough,
never enough for me even if it is enough for you.

I'm so so sorry for your loss.

How lives are spent.

I don’t know who I am.
I have morals but I have no way to know if I obey those morals, in fact I know in many cases I don’t.
I am a killer by proxy. I am a slaver by proxy.
I am an accomplice to crimes unimaginable.
I have not stepped in, or perhaps stepped out of my lazy and gluttonous wallow.
How can I consider myself a good person when everyday thousands die and I do nothing to stop it.
How can I find enjoyment when so many others bathe in misery, in pain.
I say I care but do I?
I miss the days when I didn’t know.
The days where my every movement was not against my moral compass.
I miss magic.
I miss those days when I could believe in something worthwhile, when every happy day wasn’t fraught with pessimism.
Those days when my mind didn’t have to suppress my heart.
Those days when I lived an unexamined life.
For my every examination leads to cruelty, greed and ignorance.
I could feed starving children. I believe it takes only a dollar a day.
This term I’ve wasted more than six thousand needed meals.
My physics, the numbers I move around a page, have no doubt cost starving children their lives.
I’ve spent lives. Not dollars, lives.
Every math assignment is written in blood.
I’m worried it will one day just begin to drip from my hands.
I am the privileged. I am the strong.
I kill the weak, the sick, the predetermined undeserving.
Every introspection is a doorway to misery.
If I cared, I would be steeped in the feeling.
I am ashamed to say that I am not, I am happy, and so I am guilty.
And yet my execution would do nothing.
I once spoke to a teacher, a mentor of mine.
He said that really, most of us are replaceable.
We are expendable.
I expend many every day.
I argued. Said that the Albert Einstein’s are out there and not easily replaced without a cost of time before discoveries, before advances.
I realize that they expended many on their way to enlightenment.
One farmer can tend many crops.
Maybe one in every two should die. That way the survivors could live in happiness untainted by the fact that their every action cost lives.
And yet I know there would still be killers, still be cruelty, greed, and ignorance.

So I wonder, can enlightenment, education, and happiness, even fleeting, come only at the cost of lives?
Are my actions and joys really worth that much?

The worst is, if I spend all these lives, learn all this information and never ever ever manage to improve anything in a lasting way, what was my, what was their, lives worth?

Nothing?

What were all of these words worth?

Nothing.

Likenesses that are Not Liked

I remember you, in those first days.
I could see the need in those days.
I could smell it, taste it.
It nourished me.

I have starved for you.
I would starve for you forevermore.
You are no longer in need.
You are strong, mindful, and moral.
I'm so proud.

She has your hair.
She has your eyes.
She has your heart.
She has your mind.

She has your old problems, only worse.

I am so hungry.

She has not your strength.
She still has your problem, only worse.

Both mothers, broken like glass, cut their children deeply as they grew in the cage of sharp edges.
I know you once cut, it gave you control.
I have not looked to see if she has the scars.
Her words bear her injury, or more their absence.

I could fix her.
I feel it.
I want it.

I am so hungry of purpose.
I thought my meals few and far between and out of fidelity closed my eyes.
But I have glipsed.
My old purpose gleams like a flower frosted with dew.
Am I pig enough to eat it?
To leave my now purpose and return to my older, and truer.

It is wrong of me to harbour such thoughts. I am commited, promised even.
That ring is still wrapped about your finger,
but am I still rapt with you?
It is wrong of me not to help her if I can.

I love you. No buts.
... but I have fixed you.
Who will fix her?
Were there more of me she would be fixed already.
Another would have saved me this rending inner conflict.
But rended I am not! I am calm! Complacent!
I have accepted my failure already!

I can't help without hurting.
I would never do anything to hurt you,
I've said that more than once and I meant it.
I mean it.
I mean it still.

Is it moral of me to stay?
Is it moral of me to leave?
Would she have me if she knew why I left?
Will you have me if this is why I've stayed?

Of course you will. That is how I've trained you.
I've trained you to be like me.
I would have you no matter how many mistakes you had or would make.
I love you.
But should I?

So much distance between us, with problems of yours I cannot fix.
So little distance to a problem I have experience in fixing.
Just a few steps down the hall.
Just a few steps 'till she's better off.
'till I'm morally fed.

Self actualization is actually a self destructive desire.
Though if I stay I am building toward nothing.

Am I happy?
Are you happy?
Is she happy?

Am I broken because I want to fix her?
Will you be broken if I leave?
Am I broken only while you're fixed?
Am I fixed only while someone is broken?

I don't want to break up.
But I want to fix her up.

I want to just be friends with her, but I'm scared I can't make light conversation with a moral feast while I lay starving.

How do I fix this?