Monday, July 25, 2016

struggling to sleep because being unable to tolerate yourself is getting to you?

become a glacial goddess at an affordable price. next: wake up your mother, tearfully apologizing for ruining her life with her conception of you.

eat my construct.

god has teeth.
this is what they look like. (imagine what they look like).

they are set in his jaws.
god has huge jaws
because he is afraid to be female.

females do things that reject the male.

when they cry, it is to release the male.

boys do not like the same things

girls like. they do not like crying. they like

when boys do cry, it's because
they were born with the sex

that anchors existence
when it's all you can think about.

since i am crying,
i must be a girl.

i am not embracing my confusion.
since i am a girl, i must be hoping what i want
comes to me.
i am hoping to be taken away
from my crying- to be rescued, to be killed.
there are pebbles in my shoes bothering me
but i'm not a boy so i leave them be.

when water comes from a boy,
it's because they are preparing to go get what they want
which is all that they like. they are salivating.
if boys didn't like what they wanted,
they wouldn't be excellent hunters.

they wouldn't be so masterful at making choices.
if boys die young from their advantages, they die
with joy.

girls like what they cannot get
because they have not become boys yet.
they see teeth and run until

there is only the choice to create an ocean
in which the girls jump

hoping swimming will be easy
to learn to master.

girls swim in water only to find their bodies drowning
when told
their bodies are drowning

by the sky, who then takes them in.

this is existence.
these are god's teeth
grinding together, attempting
to like the taste of what they don't want

but happens sometimes- the scarification
of the female; refusing to integrate

one's own beliefs
into their other beliefs.

god's teeth look like this. (imagine again).
paradise is the mouth they protect.

protected in paradise is the mouth i choose to be in.

there is nothing to explore anymore.
no more oceans. no more land.

i have revealed the vision of god's teeth

and the paradise it protects.

now there isn't anything left. reality

has expired.

being digested
i am digestion.

Friday, July 22, 2016

Thursday, July 21, 2016

illegal basement apartment.

i shuffle around my new illegal basement apartment. at last, independence.
i shuffle around my new illegal basement apartment looking for ghosts, or mice, or flying roaches.
an odor is here that is not mine.
a helicopter flies in circles above, in the sky.
law enforcement does this all day this time of year, to brush up
on the stuff they need to do in order to move forward in their
law enforcement systems.
it's a play pretend search for missing persons.

the helicopter signals to me my new place has not been evacuated. i better get out before i feel unwelcomed.
i keep looking until i forget to pay rent and electricity.
i keep looking because i have a hunch law enforcement isn't doing anything

except circling in the sky in their little helicopters, expecting dead bodies, yearning
the habitual doughnut.

i keep looking until i am queen but
kidnapped by the roots of the nearest tree
molesting me in my sleep.

i keep looking until i find myself in court battling for the property
against the landlord.
everyone attending says i act like a real dick these days. well, i do engage in recreational drug use.
you have a problem, they say.
no, you have a problem, i reply.

i find myself losing the case against my landlord, but i'm given enough time before leaving
to seek vengeance against him, by destroying all his stuff.

after destroying all his stuff, i walk down the closest main road dragging a dead tap root of a tree i killed
selling all the nice things the landlord was stupid enough to leave for his tenants to make use of.
one dollar.
fifty cents.
a quarter.

give me all of your money.
give me
your refusal to do so.

it is now presumed i am dead.

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

cocaine blues.

you do not owe life a favor you do not remember.
you do not only know loss over what you had believed was recent birth.
you do not recognize innocence faithfully and die a terrible death when you lose sight of it. you do not never forget every detail
of the purity that is innocence.
you have a ground. check to make sure you are not wasting your ground.
you do not happen to be a new person every time a slight dynamic in your environment is noticed, or noticed and misinterpreted.
i am reflection. my name is irrelevant. my sex is irrelevant. everything is going to disappear upon slight movement.
i am not even a ghost.
i am a mirage. i am a thief. you can say that i know light
when i see it. each time

i try to grow independently i expire, becoming something else
i cannot trust will give me ground, but i hope i can be given it, so i go ahead and trust the moment anyway. "this is ground."

i hardly bear ability to remember. do you remember your past lives?
with shame bigger than the universe, i grasp onto the habitual. i know it will not disappear.

i attempt to ressurect things that were characteristic at different points,
but they are not mine anymore. it's not my business.
it is all a force. the pressure of thought itself
is force.

i say i celebrate my intimate awareness of change.
i worship change, i say.
that's me when i'm the change worshipper, afraid
of what the next change will be, confident
that none of this was supposed to happen.

i say i'm a waste of life, a complete joke,
when i'm the believer that nothing will ever go my way and if it does i will not appreciate it.

i say i learn from all of this loss, though i don't know what.
i say that jumping from new consciousness to consciousness prevents me from grieving,
though my life feels like a sick fantasy of someone who stuffs every desire deep under their share of earth.
i say when i'm "crazy" it's because i can't exactly explore anything else when i'm the crazy person,

wondering if these accusatory prejiduces will ever get me
to just wake up and lose my hyperactive awareness of light.

i wonder if they'll abort my rage, my depression, my anhedonia, my social mistrust, my trauma, my wounds, my battling. my nobility to go on through this constant rape; my sense of justice.
i wonder if these egos driven to protect themselves by facing me with nothing less than reminding themselves how much bigger they are than me will help. "do you know what color the sky is?"
i'm an urgency that chokes you is all. a vine crying from the earth, destroying your patios, telling you
you are suffocating the earth and you work to ignore it.

however, with confidence, i believe
nobody can move as quickly as i can.

i've always known i was a healer. i understand
god and everyone else needs people like me,
dispensed easily as we are indispensible.

i am here to show you yourself. this is my healing ability. it's not much, but it's something of use, something
of god's execution.
i am here to show others what they must learn
about themselves. i am here

to reflect what scares you most about yourself.
i am a psychic. this is my prowess- that of a lone wolf

walking toward death in the woods, to meet it.

what scares me about the experience is my ability
to become shadow-
i don't have a shadow of my own to cast.

i will work my way up in the circus.
"the yes and no at once act".
let me show you my confusion over personal experience: it's me,
the absolutist from the hall of mirrors.
the instrument unprepared for what's going to happen next.


Sunday, July 17, 2016


i've my head on a fence-post, and also
a stake-
tell the healing spirits we say, "no".
keep our orb a bubble. keep our answers
the answers they are.
keep ourselves waiting for glory in repose.
i've my head on a mugshot, on the news, send
the army out for blood
for one a traitor not to nature,

televise the beating.
i've my eyes examined for redness, for dialated 
pupils, for a soul, for evidence,
we dismiss evidence for our reactions.

without our reactions, we lose our pride,
our money,
our souls.

there is nothing to be right over any longer.
there is nothing to be right over.

tell all of my friends that
violence comes from hell- not
from the teachers from whom we've learned,
tell them they're criminals not yet disposed.

to live, although
we have no right to live how the others live.

we're criminals not yet disposed.

blood and guts to go.

you came up with an idea for a super cool, really punk
new tattoo.
you shout from the rooftops that you're going to get it
because pain is so cool and you have such an awesome
blood/infection/needle/shady fetish.
there's something to dissect
about abstractions.

you always want to name things after your abortions.
you always grin.
you watch the news and behave as if shocked
but i know you feel guilty like me, over 
your de-sensitized position. the celebrities matter more.

this is where

the big man wants us to sit.
he wants us to take pictures of ourselves.
these pictures are acts of licking dick

in exchange for false promises of love.
if we don't get love, we get to cry

over how we don't get what we want
and how we feel lost over this. we don't know where to go.

we eat sugar. it's actually crack-cocaine
we synthesize with so well.

i suggested to my super cool, really punk friend
to cut himself instead
or bury a pair of tits in his chest, close to his heart.
he said it's not all the same. he said
he constitutes "pain" as an umbrella term
for different reasons of causing pain.

no matter what, it's cool, because it's like being on the news.
it's like being a celebrity, not that he's into that.

(i confuse the two.)

i said, fine.
here are my teeth i take out. see? see.
here are my hands prying my jaw apart. allah!
just keep your focus on what i balance

on the tip of my tongue. it is a heart. it's weird, all this stuff
inside of ourselves
we never stop to think about until it is pointed out
and we don't really know what to make of it,

so we carry on. this tattoo is of a girl who didn't feel like
integrating herself into the world.

she was rejected, a body that wouldn't die.
my moral compass remained strong
and i kept telling her to go away.
the world doesn't tolerate foreign objects
entering the propriety of images, and neither

do i.

she thought very highly of herself
and kept coming back.

i swallowed what i believed
was her heart but i guess it wasn't, because
i've still failed to shit it out

and i'm clogged
and i regurgitate shit, showering

five times a day in cold water,
washing off the ghosts,
the dead in the water,

drowning mother, sister, witchcraft practicioner, father, best stuffed animal,
shittiest teacher, guts, entertainment on television, working for money, money, stunt, idea. health freak.

Saturday, July 16, 2016

the autobiographical stain.

i hate these clothes. when i wear these clothes, i realize
how often i feel depression as a burden.
i wear its uniform, don't i?

i keep thinking i'm cleansing myself everytime
i throw it in the washing machine.
(once a week, "regular" load, generally
wednesdays. if not wednesdays, whenever
i am not depressed next.

i keep telling myself, "it's okay. soon, i'll be better
than everyone.

"this uniform will not humiliate me.

"this uniform will be a choice of mine.

"this uniform will be my pride and joy.

"this uniform

will be

an emblem

of nobility.

"i will

love, i will totally love,

this uniform.

"i will get it. i will understand it."

yesterday i was filled with joy. i decided
joy is a choice. one can will joy
even though it appears on its own
without the help
of anyone.

this morning i was afraid of how
i felt. i went to make peace with it. i
went to calm down. i tried.

but then i was offended

because i was being hurried. it wasn't sensitive.
then, i was angry.

i know there isn't a dash of wisdom that lay
in trying to communicate through
a problem when angry, but i'd rather give it a shot

than be nipped at by anger forever.
i am nipped away bountifully all day, as is.
such is the source of dysfunction of the bigger man. i know.

i am the bigger man.
i am the bigger man, the public persona
beating his kids behind closed doors.

has to know
except the neighbors

because they don't do anything. i watch.
(i need to make sure
they don't talk shit.

at most, they note

how dashing i really can be
when i take the time to dress with one heck
of a fastidious eye, a prodigy

to joy.

i just want you to know i beat my kids and i live for it.
i love it so much.

without it, i don't know who i am.
no, i wouldn't miss out on beating my kids for the world.

under pressure: automatic technique phone provides versus me.

Monday, July 11, 2016

a duino, ii.

with all its eyes the animal world
beholds the open. only our eyes
are as if inverted and set all around it
like traps at its portals to freedom.
what's outside we only know from the animal's
countenance; for almost from the first we take a child
and twist him round and force him to gaze
backwards and take in structure, not the open
that lies so deep in an animal's face. free from death.

a duino, i.

the youth is drawn farther on; perhaps he's fallen in love
with a young lament... he pursues her, enters meadowland. she says:
"it's a long way. we live out there..."
                            where? and the youth follows.
something in her bearing stirs him. her shoulders, neck-,
perhaps she's of noble descent. still, he leaves her, turns around,
glances back, waves... what's the use? she's a lament.

Sunday, July 10, 2016

i've evidently found love.

let us all fast together for a dream

determined by antagonisms, otherwise- henceforth,
we fast. i feel the weightlessness
of my shifting attempts

at building up something unknown inside,
confusing possession with a state
of action; resistance with hesitance.
this dislocation

is my definition i've worked for, anchored only
by faith. faith: my assurance in constancy,

the decomposing. i am tugged
by the knowledge indiscriminate.

over its city i float, the signalling kite.
let us fast together for a dream

about how being destruction, even
destruction of destruction- manipulation
is holy
so we can stand it, stand
our producing of terminating,

Saturday, July 9, 2016

making lemonade out of lemons.

this is the apparatus
with which i conceive myself. i spend my time
seeing myself.
i like to control how
i seem. this is how
i carry myself.

i like to steer people
in the right directions
concerning how they judge me.

i am the strongest.
i am the most sophisticated.
i am the most beautiful.
i am the best.
i am

i see myself all day long.
this is how i long to love.
i tell you i long, all day
you tell me you long, all day long.

the things we long for is what
brings us together.

all day long i continue to long
as do you.
we cannot stand the sound
of our expressions of longing
of one another.

this is one way i stunt my growth
while seeing myself.
this is all i know.
i do not wish to know anything else.

i'm not insane, i'm putting the nation in jeapordy by condemning the aware.

Friday, July 8, 2016

my mind is new.

i bought a gun
to preserve the new beauty,
something undone
from its origins-

when beauty was fact
unremoved from prevail.

i bought a gun
to defeat the enemy.
with what else but a weapon
would i do such a thing?

an enemy
is easy to believe in. the shadow is cast.

we are alone together. we are
surrounded together.

we go to a pet store
and watch the fish eat each other.
i take pictures. holy shit. hollllllyyyyy shit.

i am troubled. the enemy
is set free.
now i must save the world.

to feed the enemy
is to fill him to bursting, exactly when
he will scream my name.

at this last second
he will believe.
he will believe i have always
been there; will believe
i have always been there-

age old tradition to redeem ourselves
at the last second.

i see light as i am picked on
until i see.

this is not what i want
but i am grown, and i will give
to the source of my needs- the hope for the future
has my face
naming faith
after pride.

i am one to honor the light;
i am one to honor the light-
let me tell you how i will never go blind-
i am one to honor the light,

i will carry out the light, carry out
the new thing that we carry, carry out, carry
out, carry out until the hype dies down
and i am still seated in my throne
i will not abandon this light, nor have you
been told to leave.

this is my name.
this is my name.
this is my name.
this is my name.

Thursday, July 7, 2016

i do not have the time. i am very busy.

i will not take in a refugee. i do not have the time. i am
very busy. i am
starring in my very own movie.
the name of the movie is called "my movie". it is about me
and how i effect the world.
(the universe is too much to consider.)

here's an idea.
it'll solve the refugee crisis:
i suggest you send those refugees out into space. there's this
idea floating around
that i caught wind of:
"first refugees sent into space: today's news."

it rides the tailcoats of all else sent into space. imagine everyone in their
astronaut suits, astronaut helmets, welcome
to the latest installment
of "planet of the apes", here's the promo poster,
here's the five star rating,
here's the song aerosmith composed
specifically for the occasion; here's bono, he's
really pissed off;
floating around in space we go, bumpity bump bump, bumpity bump, floating

around in space,

there is no room
there is no room!

get out. get out! there is no room?

not in my house is there room. i am swollen, all the gravity i have
come to love within me
carries my hands, carries
my feet.

i am a baby.
there is no room for refugees in my country. my team inside
of me advises against it.
i am still, without allusion, in the womb.
my freedom to indulge in myself as something
i have, something
i can count on
would be compromised.
i would have to become an action, the action

i perhaps already am, but deny.
deny, deny, deny.

i'd have to see the light.

everybody is shutting their doors. it's not necessary we
go anywhere. we don't need to
get off of our asses anymore, unless

we have no place else to go.

i wander the movie inside me, while god is wondering
how such a bright, young american
wound up with a camera crew inside of a house

dreaming of telling their stories,
while the refugees outside
become the new landscapers

one throws pennies at to make their dreams
come true;
their altruist fetishes.
their big dreams in other bodies,

walking forty years
only to face glass ceiling after glass ceiling.

god says, nope.

there's a knock on my door. i'm very busy
rehearsing a scene.
i duck behind the arm of the loveseat.

the wind passes through. the wind tells
on me, but you never know
what the wind

is really saying.

nobody is home, i repeat
in my head. god says, "nope".
there is no room for shelter

in this home.

there is fruit that is moldy and memories have passed on.
there is no room for shelter

in this home.

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

dancer in the dark.

medea steps into a gladiator's arena, prepared
to face a lion
and to tame this lion.
upon stepping in, she is pushed forward
into a spotlight, and is told
to suicide with judgments of her own self and
of her bewilderment toward those who claimed

they knew what they were doing, to give
her prophecies to them in exchange
for spontaneous joy, to crash into her
past her skin like an attack of tickling continuing
past her commands of "stop". she is told

to suicide is actually a good thing, an
obedient act. to obey
is actually a really good thing.

but to command "stop" was audacious, on her part. who
did medea ever think she was?
to cast bewilderment was an attack.
she was clearly one
on a power trip and empty without it.

does she wonder about the families of those
whose lives she buries?
they spit on my face in my dreams, and now
i am unable to sleep, unable
to eat; perpetually adapting
to my state of disgust. i tell these families
to go fuck themselves.

does she ever stop to think?
she went to exact the enunciation of words that held
the hope of truth to her, but her tongue
is pulled from her mouth, her tongue,
the stretching of the word "stop"- it is desecrated.

she continues to address:

i am victimization today. i speak
of serious matters and become tickled past
my demanding "stop". i am a sensationalization.
i am a symbol which cannot be concreted into a
universal meaning as symbols
are merely representations for abstractions
yet to be figured out, if ever. i can only be interpreted.
but you are turning me into an object- a number, something
to dismiss.
you turn into the male aspect of evil, my enormous father.
you surround me with hype and dick.
you are turning me into an object,
one that is allowed only one meaning, else
war becomes a justification

to break out.
you are turning me into a holocaust that is never
to be believed in, never to be believed
you keep truth hush hush. my teeth rot out. i must
throw up, vomit you out.

i was not evil nor ever even outspoken.
i was only a priestess taken to throwing up.

you showed up.
i am what the world talks about, the world
in my mouth, the world
i prepare to kill by throwing up.

she is a tree in a forest,
she is told, there is no sound,
that's just the way it is,
that's just too damned bad.
never stop to question that which is determined
as truth.
we are the forefathers.
we have the truth's back.

medea steps into a gladiator's arena believing
she will be believed to fear a lion whom will only be tamed
by her hand. medea is meaning to say
watch out, this world is mine, gushing out
from between my front teeth.
your power is no power, we seem
to all believe of each other.
you do not tell of the choices you make. you choose
to rot.
this is what she means to say, but she sees
everybody is killing themselves.
into the arena they jump, dying
on impact. suicide
has become a hop, skip, and a jump.

i am so sorry, medea, her sympathizers cry. this has
not been your fault, they continue.

this world is mine, medea addresses them.
i am old and nothing without it. time
slows for me. i have gained understanding
of eternity.
but you all are young.
listen to me only this one time: run
from our paradise into the sky.
run as bombs are dropped from the sky.

do not believe in the black smogs
we have turned ourselves into. look upward

and see otherwise. see
no enemy. see only the sky.

Tuesday, July 5, 2016

without bias, i see the truth of beauty.

i acknowledge that i experience belief this work of text (that happened to happen to me) need be shared, for the fantasy of taking part of giving and receiving understanding.

safe place.

there is meat in prison, the parade
of helplessly surrendered.

i fear their looming shadows, those of

the set examples,
the consequences,
the wet dreams of tourists,
god's mistakes,
the threats.

they are the meat of the system,
each uniquely inhibited
as we all
are uniquely inhibited.

our choices led us here.
our choices are restricted within.

this is within myself, that which is outside.

in prison, which is the inside of myself,
smells rise to the ceilings
in humid fogs. unable
to move further upward, they forcefully

push themselves back downward
to the possession of meat once born. this is repeated
again and again.
i fear this flux, this
cyclic starting over, being

the only action to be.

i do not know what to do about freedom. even freedom
feels like an obligation; a pressurizing condition
i must do my best to learn to live with.
i treat it as a framing gesture overwhelming me.

i do not know what to say.
i fear i'd rather not be allowed a say, and speak then
as to control an imposed power struggle.
i do not know what to do but acknowledge.

i do not think there is anything else to do.
so let me tell you how disgusting i am:
i am disgusted
by what actions i must've taken
that must have led me to the intensities, rapturous
frequencies of emotion today,

to the extent that i forget all of my altruisms.

i start over without noticing.
i fear this next life.
i fear starting over.
i start over once more without noticing.

on the cross
i will recognize presence
as my freedom,
as my truly holy womb.

Monday, July 4, 2016

we are the military.

get up.
you are not in this alone (you completely delusional fuck), as in
we will stop you

from remembering the history of
your pain.
you will only touch the surface, which is normal, everyone
does that.
get yourself together
we will glue you back together
for you.
we will have no choice

but to put you out of your misery.

it's bullshit, you say?
it's not just bullshit. it's not. you are not
alone. like magic, here we are. how kind

of us mercenaries.

you've got to
wake up from your splendor
of being special. every fucking sympathizer

in the card aisle says, "you are not alone. being told this

will never go through one ear out the other
so, there.

so, there.

get up. i heard you like popsicles. is that so?
i've got a popsicle stick project
with your name written all over it

and i'm too afraid to watch,
so you're going to have to get up now as i'd have to go.
you are not alone. there. i said it.
i told you the only thing i know how to say,
again. (i think i'm really finding my soul with this.)

i've admitted i don't know there are multiple sides

no more torture. here we all are, acknowledging
humanity, acknowledging
one another, brothers
and sisters. you are not alone. this

is the secret magic trick it takes
to get someone to realize
that they have the exact same understandings
gained from experience, same exact 

that the rest of us have. you are not special. you are
the military.
you are not alone, isn't that some especially deep shit?
you are not alone. you are in on it.
don't look into it,
but you are not alone.

don't look up. you'll see everyone around you,
and realize
in this respect
you are not alone

and you'll feel even more alone
then you ever have

it's all coming from your own mind.
you are so selfish to isolate yourself like this. therefore,
you did this all to yourself.
you are in on this.
you are the military.

i feel love now.

lay down. sleep. prove something
in your dreams.

make your dreams become reality. believe
you are coming to join us. you know

what you are doing. i'm not fucking interested. i pray
you know what you are doing; you know
you are acting for yourself.

take care of it all your own self.

little child. know the truth damn well, but act
against it. stand for this. this
is what you stand for- denying truth. get up.
you know
something is wrong. the world is crazy enough
for you to believe you can get away with saying
it has nothing to do

with your contributions. i am filled with resentments; my
blood boils. i am bitter. i follow a call

in my sleeplessness, in the world
of needing for life to be sucked out of us
in order to survive. rage. rage everywhere.

i pray you never need to work as much as i have had to
to live. i pray you never need
explore avenue after avenue to no avail. i pray you

never fully understand this. if you did, you may
find yourself trying to catch up.

you never will.
this work, this hard work

i've dedicated my life to on account of "doing or dying"

is my pride and joy, my baby. you. you are
my pride and joy, my baby. i do not see

where i have come from. it seems i've never moved before.
so what have you done for me?

fuck you, hard work. you are immediately dead.
you are ugly anyway.

no more evading- i stalk you from heaven
between the trees

where i have been released to. these woods
are nothing but dead bodies

and the pine needles who know their secrets, though
they are not alone in this. you suspect
you are being followed. it's only me- the wind. the angel

of meaning. your mother. your
savior. sleep. sleep. i will meet you there,
killing you
upon your latest accomplishments
and your aggrandizing of them.
i will recruit you to go

where i am going-

my tasks run toward failure. we must war
against one another if you resist my choosing you.
i know what choices i make.
you know what choices you believe of others to make.
i am disinterested in crap.

i am going to eat you. this is simply
the protocol of things. "protocol". now, i'm sure,

you allow me to turn your pain into suffering.
this vision is true.
you are yourself, to you. you are yourself.

this violence is mine. it's tender. it hurts, caged
in my head- house
of the rising sun, house of the rising sun.

this fever will be mine no longer.
i will only have a black sore.

you've known you've been right this whole time. me-
i've just had the wrong idea

about everything

every effort i have made to maintain my experience,
to avoid pure suffering.

but you know you are right.
pure suffering is what i've consistently had
going for me.

tremulous is the convincing.

a force is that which cannot be chosen. walls pressure against me in my sanctuary. i am upset even in my dreams about all outside of my control and i'd like to understand this trauma. i don't know where god is. perhaps i am being protected and this indeed is his song. perhaps i have to dig as much as i can from pits in order to know rapture is always a fact; light is always there- this is a matter of me reacting to not getting or having or being what i want; a matter of me mistrusting my surroundings. god wants me to tell stories to spread word. how nice. i don't know. depression is not meant to be understood. i don't know what to learn from this teacher. i feel "insane" and exhausted. i know i have to learn upon the course i am on in order to embrace truth however i must. this is a force, yes. i must learn how to step away from my willfulness against force. i must trust that everything is always taken care of whether i notice it or not.

Saturday, July 2, 2016


if these pictures disturb you, please, donate money to me for the botox injections my neurologist has been insisting i get since i met her years ago. for only three hundred some-odd dollars every three months for the rest of my life, you'll not only change the appearance of my forehead, but you will be saving my life as well. donate today.

Friday, July 1, 2016

the modern dilemna.

this is a junky. hi, everybody! who's got the stash? cash??? but i said "stash". stash! stash!

my name is junky!
i accept that i am on a bed, being my old junky self.
i accept that i reject all else, except
everything that i do accept. i accept that i'd rather reject all i accept.

i am a junky, after all. junkies are notorious for being lame.

i accept that i do not tame myself. i accept that i am ashamed of myself. will the shame stop the suffering? if i take care of the abuse, will you take care of stopping abusing?
if i say, "this is all my fault and i deserve to be hurt," will that appease, and all the hurting will stop, and i will accept the calm to follow, unless i go seeking abuse, then i will accept i am undeserving of kindness, and then i'll get my wings?
will i be good, then? will i surpass expectations? will i be pat on the head? will i be shown care?

and when shown care, when i reject being shown care, and i find myself in even more trouble- trouble i deserve for being so defiant- will i get life in prison or the death sentence?
i accept i will get either life in prison or the death sentence
if i continue to reject the true love of violence. i better learn to love the beatings. i better.

i accept that not loving the beatings will only make me miserable. once miserable, i will never find happiness. do i make this clear? what, am i retarded? don't i want happiness?

this is part of the process. this. this business of emotions surfacing for my own good. this is the first step toward happiness.
i accept i reject only my own mind and i accept that my mind will eat away at itself as a result. this is what i need to do, right? this is what i see every other person i see doing and they seem perfectly happy to be unaware; ignorant. have they repented for the anger of others; for not shutting up, for being horrible, for pointing out facts, for seeking attention, for not doing like how other people do, for being filled with rage and unsure how to handle it, for not treating myself like a protagonist, for not just cutting the crap, for not meeting expectations? am i just behind in the game? is that it? i must be brain dead to be so behind.

one day, i will learn how to stop being awful, and accept injustice, bare the burden of injustice, and it will be lovely. all my plants will die. my dog will die. my dreams will die. i will not die.

my name is junky. i accept that i don't know the origins of my name except "it's all my fault".