fifty frenchmen can't be wrong (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
some_stars) wrote2009-08-29 09:57 am
some_stars) wrote2009-08-29 09:57 am
Entry tags:
revision
sorry for the poetry spam. i'm feeling kind of cut off lately, so: spam. anyway this is a first go-round revision of the last thing.
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 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 God does not know you. Your life is a mark of nothing. A pen without ink.
Accept you are now afraid of walls.
Accept that no one would miss you.
Accept that maybe the cats would, if only because you feed them.
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 itches on the third day of not showering.
Accept the shrinking of the world 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. You would swing them in circles if you could, or just bang them 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 that your mother is dying, but everyone is keeping it secret from you. Look for signs.
Accept you are lost in a pile of leaves.
Accept what is gone, that is everything, for once you were an astounding creature, and all of the animals whispered your name.
Accept the countries you'll never see, how 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 now you can whistle, but only wolves respond.
Accept you are a ship, sinking.
Accept that the doctors only pretend to believe you, 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, that Ecstacy damages serotonin pathways, and marijuana never works on you, and the new drugs make you sick when you drink, 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. And swallow 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 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 God does not know you. Your life is a mark of nothing. A pen without ink.
Accept you are now afraid of walls.
Accept that no one would miss you.
Accept that maybe the cats would, if only because you feed them.
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 itches on the third day of not showering.
Accept the shrinking of the world 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. You would swing them in circles if you could, or just bang them 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 that your mother is dying, but everyone is keeping it secret from you. Look for signs.
Accept you are lost in a pile of leaves.
Accept what is gone, that is everything, for once you were an astounding creature, and all of the animals whispered your name.
Accept the countries you'll never see, how 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 now you can whistle, but only wolves respond.
Accept you are a ship, sinking.
Accept that the doctors only pretend to believe you, 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, that Ecstacy damages serotonin pathways, and marijuana never works on you, and the new drugs make you sick when you drink, 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. And swallow it.