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,
wearing

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.
sometimes

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

nobody
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.