fifty frenchmen can't be wrong (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
some_stars) wrote2009-08-28 11:11 pm
some_stars) wrote2009-08-28 11:11 pm
Entry tags:
another bad poem
I would create a filter for this stuff but I really don't care enough. anyway this one really is bad, though i think it has the potential for good-ness in it, and it fulfills this week's assignment for class(write a list/litany-type poem). About half of it needs to be cut away and most of the other half needs to be developed and a lot of it is in the wrong order. But I give it to you anyway! If you are wise, you will ignore it.
Meditation
Accept that you feel like a monster.
Accept your terror.
Accept the knowledge absolute and holy that this will never end.
Accept that the good part is missing from you.
Accept that you die and the dream keeps going.
Accept never getting out of bed because you will break into a thousand pieces if you try, if you even sit up against a pillow.
Accept you haven't been outside in two weeks and you can't even guess at the weather except sometimes by the sound of rain on the roof, which you grow to love, then crave, as proof the world exists despite how terrible you are.
Accept that listening to masses will remind you that God does not know you and your life is a mark of nothing, a pen without ink.
Accept that no one would miss you.
Accept that maybe the cats would, if only because you feed them, and don't kill yourself yet.
Accept the smell of your sick body and terror sweat, of the teeth you're afraid to brush and equally afraid will fall out one night like a handful of nickels.
Accept the way your scalp starts to itch on the third day of not showering.
Accept the shrinking of the world, that once was so wide you could not imagine its bounds, down to your house, your room, your bed, your skull. And then to one black worm inside your brain, curled up into a point.
Accept that your hands are ugly and broken, like pink knots at the end of your arms, which you would swing in circles if you could, or at least bang against the wall over and over with every breath and still it wouldn't hurt as much as breathing hurts. And maybe somebody would hear.
Accept what is gone, that is everything, for once you were an astounding creature and all of the animals whispered your name. Everything is lost.
Accept the countries you'll never see, including ones you never particularly wanted to go to until you ruined your life and now it hurts like a deep splinter in your foot that you'll live here only, and forever. A splinter you have to walk on.
Accept that the cat will not comfort you.
Accept that everyone you know including the doctors only pretend to believe in your “disease,” and your mother is secretly sick of you, and the pharmacist thinks you look awful, and the woman you passed in the hallway a moment ago is disgusted.
Accept asking your psychiatrist if you could kill yourself with thirty of these and your stomach-squeezing anger when she says no probably not.
Accept your feeling of betrayal that nobody prescribes barbiturates anymore, and that Ecstacy damages serotonin pathways, and marijuana never works on you, and the new drugs make alcohol too nauseating to drink more than a glass, and you are stuck in yourself with no way out, not even for an hour.
Accept the new drugs every time because it might, it might, it might.
Accept what you deserve.
Acceptance brings peace.
Meditation
Accept that you feel like a monster.
Accept your terror.
Accept the knowledge absolute and holy that this will never end.
Accept that the good part is missing from you.
Accept that you die and the dream keeps going.
Accept never getting out of bed because you will break into a thousand pieces if you try, if you even sit up against a pillow.
Accept you haven't been outside in two weeks and you can't even guess at the weather except sometimes by the sound of rain on the roof, which you grow to love, then crave, as proof the world exists despite how terrible you are.
Accept that listening to masses will remind you that God does not know you and your life is a mark of nothing, a pen without ink.
Accept that no one would miss you.
Accept that maybe the cats would, if only because you feed them, and don't kill yourself yet.
Accept the smell of your sick body and terror sweat, of the teeth you're afraid to brush and equally afraid will fall out one night like a handful of nickels.
Accept the way your scalp starts to itch on the third day of not showering.
Accept the shrinking of the world, that once was so wide you could not imagine its bounds, down to your house, your room, your bed, your skull. And then to one black worm inside your brain, curled up into a point.
Accept that your hands are ugly and broken, like pink knots at the end of your arms, which you would swing in circles if you could, or at least bang against the wall over and over with every breath and still it wouldn't hurt as much as breathing hurts. And maybe somebody would hear.
Accept what is gone, that is everything, for once you were an astounding creature and all of the animals whispered your name. Everything is lost.
Accept the countries you'll never see, including ones you never particularly wanted to go to until you ruined your life and now it hurts like a deep splinter in your foot that you'll live here only, and forever. A splinter you have to walk on.
Accept that the cat will not comfort you.
Accept that everyone you know including the doctors only pretend to believe in your “disease,” and your mother is secretly sick of you, and the pharmacist thinks you look awful, and the woman you passed in the hallway a moment ago is disgusted.
Accept asking your psychiatrist if you could kill yourself with thirty of these and your stomach-squeezing anger when she says no probably not.
Accept your feeling of betrayal that nobody prescribes barbiturates anymore, and that Ecstacy damages serotonin pathways, and marijuana never works on you, and the new drugs make alcohol too nauseating to drink more than a glass, and you are stuck in yourself with no way out, not even for an hour.
Accept the new drugs every time because it might, it might, it might.
Accept what you deserve.
Acceptance brings peace.