my entire life has been an avoidance
so at what level do i.
what do i write?
if i were to write
a diary entry, say,
of my day,
weekend, week, year,
you’d be enthralled, i’m sure,
by an itemised list
of the mindless exercises engaged in
solely to avoid.
[I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart.
avoid, avoid, avoid.]
at levels ranging from tiresome
all unbearable for as long as i am.
the biggest discomfort is of knowing who i am.
of course i know who i am. i’m aware.
i’m horrified and ashamed.
if i can just distract myself,
just long enough to fall asleep,
i’ve made it.
what do i write?
i’m not going to confront those fears.
years. not today.
it is not going to goad me
into making the changes i never would make
every single sordid second otherwise.
thirty four years and i know
it is not going to convince me of anything.
that critic inside
that persuasively snide
devil on my every shoulder
so it is witness to every little bit
of all of my shit
the only ever one, so what,
it thinks it knows me?
one hundred and thirty six years
of labs and great minds and double blinds
and nobody knows me.
it might feel productive. but it isn’t and
it won’t be.
one hundred and fifty four theories and
nothing ever changes.
we remain pathetic,
selfish and weak and shameful.
i can’t convince any one else that they are not and i can’t convince myself.
yeah alright, so.
we have this devil, all of us,
these thoughts. these condemnations.
these constant high-pitched scathing narrations.
(I know you)
all of us do.
we all have this story told us again and again
by ourselves: I am ungood.
OH HOW we love to tell ourselves
again and again.
it feels productive but it isn’t and it won’t be.
the do nots and whys and what ifs and shoulds,
they don’t burn the bad away like they ought
the way we were taught by..
ungood, oh god.
yeah, it must be.
cuz it doesn’t feel like it comes from us,
not just from us, it is so loud at the time.
it is so loud all of the time.
a constantly playing self-hate radio
volume full blast
and no switch for off
perhaps there’s a dial to switch for a while,
but it lasts a few seconds,
a minute, at most.
a radio that sits in your reptilian brain.
what is the function? fuck it! what does it want?
two hundred thousand years of radio
and it’s a part of you.
your brain, your reptilian whatever,
your totally fucked up
traumas, chemicals, dramas, corpuscles,
it doesn’t want you to feel so bad
you kill it. it’s not an idiot.
it’s just ignorant.
it feels productive (it’s not)
it’s just trying to be
a constantly shouting
how can a sometimes voice argue against that constant,
self hate radio.