Journal

Prose for Poets, a lil tongue and cheeky

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Just a thought!

Wow, I have read some sick, sad, shit on this site.It would seem, half the "Poeteers" are either...

In therapy, been in therapy, or need therapy...Or can't write poetry so they use this as a journal to show

just how non-poetic their life is.. 1."I can't love".. 2."nobody loves me"..or..3."my love left me". I'm quite sure

those were the first three, "Rules of Life", in the "Rules of Life book" when you joined...#4, 5, and 6 were

#4, Have a good cry..#5, Realize you're not the only one with the problem..#6, Don't be a sad sac the

rest of your life...#7. Get over it...#8.Grow a pair and Move on!  #9, Try to write something that doesn't start out with..."Poor poor pitiful me"... "My life's so pathetic"...or... "My life is over because , out of 7 billion people in the world, this was the only person that could complete me"....Last but not least, #10. Try to write something good and..."Have a Nice Day"*:D big grin

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Author's Notes/Comments: 

I read so many sad stories pertaining to love, they became repeatitive and started to become humorous, as if they were all from the same cult and consulted on what to write. I knew what the next line was going to be, because it was the same in the last one. Their thoughts began to run together...bla, bla, bla, my life is over, I'll never find love again..."Geeze"..Take a number and draw it from a hat to decide who gets to post it next.  P.S. "Not everyone can post the exact same sad story and change the signature"...Will the real author please stand up!

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My Lost Souls

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Wulfman Adventures

I could have folders, journals and g-bytes of mass data containing poetry.

Fail to write some down, speak them on the spot and leave the behind when traveling.

For all my lost poems, I hope to get smart and keep a pocket journal.

So I don't keep creating lost souls.

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Deluge of Subtraction (I Have No Idea Why I Write)

When a day passes without a collection of words falling from thought to paper or screen, I get a little upset with myself. In part, I believe that I am defined by my ability to think creatively and originally, but the impulse to make things comes less and less often as I age. This, in turn, throws me into something of an identity crisis: how will I frame my perception of myself if my creativity wanes? What will be left within that makes me worthwhile?

 

I fear a future devoid of the urge to make things. Some times I fear it as a possibility, and other times I fear it as an inevitability. Some times I worry it has already happened, and that these vague attempts at short stories, prose or poetry are just me, flailing against the machinations of my subconscious and conscious mind(s). Currently, I have over half-a-dozen short stories in progress; a majority of which I'm almost certain will never actually be completed. All of these ideas are incredibly half-baked (though still somewhat promising, otherwise I wouldn't bother keeping them), and I have to pay such close attention to my most fleeting creative urges and notions - otherwise I'd likely never sit down to make anything ever again.

 

When at home, I spend a majority of my time in a highly-passive state. I relax, intoxicate and indulge in varying forms of media; from sitcoms to quiz shows to music to stand-up comedy. I like to release the tense, white-knuckled grip I have on my mental processes during the work day and simply forget about responsibilities or needs that are above the most immediate and dire. But this makes for a problem: when in this relaxed, inactive frame of mind, I very rarely have any urge to buckle down and concentrate on my stories, despite having all the time in the world to do so. I fear that this is essentially because I am still, at my core, a very lazy human being. While on the clock, I ALWAYS have an almost-feverish urge to get some writing done. But why then? Most likely because I'd rather be writing than reviewing appraisals or dealing with upset bank representatives on the phone. Am I a writer at all at this point, or am I just something of a braggart who uses his "writing" as an excuse to feel slightly more unique or distinguished?

 

This question is valid, and it requires some actual reflection. Why did I begin writing in the first place? I can remember why very distinctly: I was just picking up my first instrument (electric guitar) and a friend of mine - already an experienced musician in his own right - wanted to start a band. We were young and our ambitions reached much further than our dedication, but we did attempt to make something of the idea. So we began practicing singing as a pair and after a while, realized that we'd need to write lyrics if we intended to write songs. We would handle a verse each, work in tandem on the chorus and then hammer out whatever details we felt were still necessary. We were young (twelve-years-old in fact) and the songs were silly and dramatic, but it all felt very real and significant at the time. While we never actually figured out melodies for any of our songs, we began spending nearly all of our free time together writing. He would mostly stick to lyrics, while I eventually ventured into more straight-forward poetry; partially at the urging of our eighth grade English teacher who was very good about reinforcing our new-found enthusiasm for the craft. Though I may never know what the actual quality of my poetry was at the time, she made me truly believe that I had a previously-undiscovered knack for writing. My friend fell away from both writing and playing music over time, while I stuck with my poetry and took it further in later years, eventually becoming a true musician as well.

 

It's been some time since I looked back on those days and it fills me with a sort of bitter nostalgia. See, when I first began writing, I was an artist, through-and-through. Since my toddler days I had spent so many hours putting pencil to paper and drawing anything that came to mind. I was damn good for my age and only getting better, and of course, I wanted it to be my career when I became an adult. And that seemed to be my downfall: upon entering high school and encountering lots of different artists - more than I had ever known and many that were leagues above me in terms of skill - I became discouraged. I grew frustrated with my inability to transfer images from my mind to the paper, and drawing slowly became little more than an exercise in blinding anger the likes of which I had never experienced before. Soon I was shredding almost everything I attempted to create, and over the next four years, I stopped drawing as a hobby pretty much entirely. The idea of a career in art or animation became something I would scoff at, as if it hadn't totally consumed me for more than half of my young life.

 

That passion to create art has never returned. Occasionally I'll draw, or doodle with charcoals and chalks (my now-preferred mediums because they're so messy), but it's rare that anything significant gets started, and nothing gets completed, period. Having been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder this past year, I suppose I could use that as an excuse, but to do so has never felt justifiable in my opinion. I've proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am capable of producing things that are both thorough, complicated and finished; it's just that I rarely maintain interest in any one concept or idea long enough to wrap everything up. Currently, I have one short story which has breached a dozen pages. It's been through many rewrites and edits, and the story has evolved considerably in both scope and concept. In many ways I'm proud of what I've written thus far, but upon reviewing it in its current entirety, I felt that it was just... Silly. A silly idea for a story that nobody would have any interest in reading. And with that one, passing thought, I stopped writing, and have since began two, brand new stories. Knowing me, neither will be completed, as I seem almost incapable of finishing anything that cannot be belted out in one sitting.

 

I often wonder if part of the reason why I feel next to no desire to write while at home is because I smoke entirely too much marijuana. I have my reasons and am beyond feeling ashamed for my vice, but it has some totally undesirable consequences that I have yet to conquer. I am in great health and feel motivated to exercise daily and will often pair smoking with a work out or with chores, because the sensation no longer bogs me down in ways that it once did. But on the flip side, I generally feel no desire to apply myself to anything which requires deep thought or insight after getting high. It helps to understand that I smoke specifically to detach from the world at large, as I spend each and every day as a hyper-sensitive and highly-depressive young man. Each hour at work is spent impatiently waiting for the clock to strike five PM so that I may return home, isolate myself and smoke up. At this stage in my life, it is the only thing I've found to be reliable in defeating my mood swings, and thus, has become one of the only things I consistently look forward to doing. It's a sad way to be, but it's what works, and what keeps me from sitting in the garage with the car on.

 

But has this ongoing dependency hobbled me in a creative sense? I really can't say, because for a long time, smoking was the only thing that kept me writing. As has been the case in recent months, I often have a difficult time separating my constant misery from my creative pursuits, and the result is poetry or prose or whatever else tinged with self-loathing and misanthropy. Many of these pieces are not worth my time as a writer, and they are worth even less time to you, the potential reader. When I became a regular user of marijuana, I would often use it to alter my state of mind almost immediately before I began writing, and the results would often be bereft of that all-encompassing negativity that I can never seem to shake. It was a welcome change to the process. Presently, however, marijuana seems to have very little influence over what I do and do not write about. My hatred for the world and the people who occupy it paints almost every thought or interaction I have. Much of my time in therapy is spent lamenting the state of things, the lack of tact in the general populous, the inability of anyone to think uniquely or for themselves; I am basically a geriatric mind trapped in a young body. And when I write, I can scarcely manage to escape this outlook, and will fill line after line with metaphors for self-mutilation and suicide.

 

I hate this. I hate my internal insistence on emphasizing the negative; as if being ceaselessly aware of it will somehow make it go away, or make me numb to it. It never does, and I will never stop being affected by it. So why must I constantly remind myself of my shortcomings through my writing? Why am I so incapable of finishing a good story - one that other people may actually want to read - but I can summon this desperate self-loathing in an instant?

 

I don't know.

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personal notes #1

living on this planet is like living in a paper bag
the world is dark
breathing is a chore that sometimes makes us high
and the state doesn't care
and if they did we'd be fucked
"everyone is serious"
and someday sooner or later we will leave the earth whether first in body or in spirit last will be through the amnesia of the dead

this is all depressing shit,

i learned to speak chinese on a mountain in california but i cannot write it.
i can barely read it
help i am illiterate!
the letters inside palms elude me
i understand nothing about fossils or footprints
i don't know what the monks are chanting at all
tell me are they still relevant?
are you being sincere?

my therapist in group says so many things that don't matter
everything i can understand is meaningless
i hate when my writing is neat
it makes it pointless

there is a tiny man inside my brain and a smaller one inside of his

this is very serious!
grazing glazed turnips dog wily grenade!

there is a cat behind our backyard fence he is meowing unintelligibly!
methylone-gazing at each other i love you but i am high i do not understand you
i am high am i intelligble?
we are so limited
a man i know mispronounces "condescending"
he is indecipherable!
another misspells quadrupedation
don't get me started, he is a raving lunatic, a modern mystery!

who is even going to read this?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is what I write when I'm bored. I imagine reading this to zany sound effects and maybe to naked people or to people at a funeral.

 

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tags:

Keeper of my Soul

Every single page is blank,
Every line so fresh.
More promising than old and dank;
Eager for my secrets.

Soft modest blue, so dull and dark,
Lips sealed, it won't recount
The words with which I made my mark
On paper that listens.

If my inspiration betrays,
Comfort it will supply.
Even on my darkest of days,
Into it's clutches I sink.

When people plug their ears and sneer,
When I am soon to fall,
My new journal will hold me dear,
The best friend of them all.

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New Journal -03/22/2011-

Hey, I finally got myself a job.

Surprisingly enough, my time spent as Liz's go-to boy actually paid off and landed me a job at a national company stationed right along the river. Not smoking paid off, and I passed the drug test and am currently working a forty hour week once again. I'm just an intern for the time being, but if I do well during these potential fifteen weeks, it may mean benefits and a real, honest-to-God job.

Today I was at work and wasn't feeling too hot. I tried to rush to the restroom at one point, and ended up puking all over the stairwell that connects our temporary offices to the rest of the building. I'm embarrassed, but I don't know how I could've controlled the situation. I hope they don't let that affect their opinion of me at all. They sent me home and seemed understanding, but you never know.

Kathleen and I are still doing whatever it is that we're doing. I finally got her to talk to me at length about our possibilities and about becoming an official couple, but she wouldn't give. I considered ending the entire thing, mostly out of hurt I guess, but decided against it because hey - I'm going to get hurt no matter what, so I might as well get as much ass as possible on the way there.

I'm still lonely I suppose, but if a relationship is what I really want, I need to actually get out there and try to find someone compatible with me. I'm trying to build the motivation to be a better me lately, but it's been hard. I've started smoking again already, and while it's really helped me feel peaceful and content with everything, I can tell it's still a bit of an unhealthy part of my life. I've told myself that I'm going to limit my own supply, and that when I finally end up in a relationship again, that I'm going to quit. It doesn't help to be that way all the time when dealing with someone else's feelings, as well as your own, and it only makes things in a relationship more sterile and distant.

Last night, sitting in my living room; I had the windows open to let a breeze in, and I was quite intoxicated and playing a video game. I looked around and was absorbed in the room's dimness. The lighting is so familiar now that I don't even think about it, but the room has always been so dark and heavily-shadowed. It makes you sleepy. But something about the setting of the room and the smell and feel of the air made me think of Megan. When we had first moved in and were enjoying our time together so much, we would often sit drinking some sort of hot drink in the living room and play Folklore on the PS3 in shifts or watch a movie while laying down on the couch. Those were really the good times, and I suppose that I miss them more than I realize. I knew as soon as Megan walked out of my life that I didn't want to be alone; our relationship had been such a struggle that it barely felt like a relationship at all.

I want Kathleen all to myself, but that is the one thing I just can't have. Kathleen fought to keep me around much harder than I had ever thought she would when I had decided to just sever ties completely. Does that mean that she has serious feelings for me and just will not adhere to them? She told me that she had formed true, honest feelings for me and that it "startled" her. I know that I'm kind of a fuck-up, but until now, I never realized how much being a fuck-up could really ruin potentially good things for me. Either way, I'm locked-in at this point. Eventually I'll have to deal with getting my feelings hurt all over again, but I think that it will be worth it to stay so close to Kathleen for a while. I'm shocked by how taken with her I am. I've felt like I've become such a cold person. But I really feel something for her, and she definitely brings out the better side of me.

So I've decided that really, I should get out there and meet some other girls. It'll do me nothing but good to socialize and to really try to meet some new people. And maybe I'll get lucky and meet someone great that actually wants me completely for who I am. Megan never really understood me, and I never really understood her. I want to be with someone who truly gets me and wants to get me. Kathleen makes me feel that way, and other girls will too.

Part of me wants to apologize to Megan about the way things went between us. I'm not sure why all of the sudden, but I do. I want to tell her that I wish I could have quit smoking pot for her. She's so hard to deal with, but she's not a bad person. I never was the right guy to suit her, but I tried to be everything that she wanted. Eventually I stopped trying, and I want to say that I'm sorry for that as well. But it's better for us all not to talk in the end. I miss Megan, and I miss Christina. I miss seeing them and being able to have a good time with them. They made some of my better memories of the last couple of years together, and I wish we could go back to before Megan and I dated and just be okay with them both once again.

I still manage to be so sad despite life getting so much better. I'm going to look into getting anti-depressants, but it may be some time before I motivate myself enough to actually get up and get out there and try to be a better kind of me.

I wish I could be somebody significant. I could have been, I think.

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Things as of January, 2011 (Continued)

Permanent note to self: When you think that something is too good to be true, that's because it is.

Kathleen was kind enough to stop over after work and spend some time with me. We spent a couple of hours talking and kissing and enjoying each other's company. She spoke of the other boy she's seeing. She spoke of her last boyfriend and why things came to a close. I suppose it's my fault for reading far too into the situation and, as I suspected, becoming far too invested in it much too quickly.

My fears were justified, I think. Kathleen is an unbelievably motivated individual. She wants someone that stacks up to her expectations. She's an incredible girl, one that I could fall for easily, but she's already outlined everything for me. I'm here for what basically amounts to her amusement. That makes her sound kind of cruel and she isn't; she's just very realistic, and I suppose that I'm not. Her other guy is in a fraternity and is going to be throwing a party for her the weekend after her birthday. He's invited her to some social dance the school's having. I'm sure he's close to a degree and close to success, just like Kathleen. Even her last boyfriend was studying in the same exact field she was, and he simply didn't stand up to what she wanted out of a partner. He wasn't social enough, and wasn't ambitious enough.

It hurt to hear all of that, because it forced me to turn my gaze inward. I try so hard to filter all thoughts of where my life has ended up. I try to deny how much potential I had, and how little I was able to amount to what I could have been. I don't know why I allowed myself to become what I am. I'm so scared of the thought of trying again. I hate school so fucking much - I always have. I hate the money that it steals from you, I hate the time spent learning about absolutely nothing, and I hate that after all it takes away, all it gives you in return is a piece of paper saying that you dealt with it. I was never passionate about learning. I have never found a subject that I was able to fall in love with. I simply cannot force myself to tolerate something that infuriates me so much when I don't even have a clear direction in which to travel through.

I hate myself so much. I hate who I am. I hate everything I've turned into over the past few years.

I hate that I feel so much pain because of all of this. I allowed myself to believe, even for just a moment, that Kathleen would see something in me and that suddenly, none of these important things would matter even a little bit. I don't want to date. I don't want to just hang out, mess around and call it quits for another week or two while she does the exact same things with somebody else. I'm just not that kind of a guy. I want something real, and I want love. I want Kathleen, but I can't have her. She's such an adult, and I'm such a stupid fucking child.

Look at me. I'm fucking crying over this. I'm not crying because Kathleen has firmly established what her intentions are, nor am I crying because I know that she's probably just going to cut me loose when I cease to entertain her. I'm crying because tonight, for the first time since I can remember, it's truly hit home how badly I have fucked up. And I feel absolutely powerless to do a damn thing about it.

No one is ever truly powerless, but I just can't seem to accept that. And it's all because I'm so afraid of falling short all over again. I cannot figure out this life that has been laid out in front of me. Despite having so much support, and despite the fact that the entire world believes in me even though I don't believe in myself, I just can't. The older I get, the further I drift from what I could have been. The older I get, the more I detest everything about my life and myself.

For the first time in so, so long, I really do want it all to end. I want to simply forget all of the mistakes that I've made. I don't want to think about them anymore. I don't want to be me anymore. I want it all to turn off and go away. And eventually I think that it will all pile up just enough so I'll be able to ignore thoughts of my family and friends, and I'll let myself go. I suppose I don't know that, but really, I'm kind of looking forward to the possibility. Hell's a bunch of bull shit, and once I'm gone, I won't have to hear a word uttered of the pain I've caused those around me. The only reason I'm waiting, I'm guessing, is because I'm a coward.

Recently, I felt I had begun to accept this terrible, pitiful path I've descended towards. I'll be working hard for very little for most of my life, and all the while I'll pursue my stupid ass hobbies without ever making a dent in the world as a collective. I'll settle for a girl that accepts me, though I'm sure that I'll never really be happy with her. Eventually I'll die, and honestly even then, I sort of figured I'd die by my own hand. I've never been okay in the head, clearly, and all I do is continuously damage myself as I age by trying so hard to convince myself that I never deserved any better and never could have achieved any better. I know better, and yet my fear clouds me.

Nobody knows where or why I began to come down so hard on myself. I have absolutely no idea, nor can I even begin to understand why. When did this happen? When did I suddenly decide that I was nothing?

I miss Dr. Diehl so much. I could really use him right now, but I don't have the money to pay for his services, nor does our health insurance cover him. I don't know who to talk to about this. I'm hurting so terribly right now. I'm hurting so, so badly. What the fuck am I going to do now?

I have to detach from Kathleen. I can't keep getting closer to her and feeling more for her, I just can't. I have to do what she's doing, and accept this as nothing long-term and recognize it as something that is only temporary, fun and casual. I don't know why she's even bothering with me. She knows what I fucking am. She knows I'm a fucking loser with nothing going for him.

I know that I'm a sweet, genuine guy. But in the end, none of that matters if I can't back it up with something solid. And this will continue happening for the rest of my life, with every interesting, educated girl that I meet. I'll charm them, we'll talk, and they'll wake the fuck up and realize that no matter how I may be on the inside, on the outside I'll always be a stupid, unmotivated, directionless piece of shit.

Let it all end. It doesn't matter anymore.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Some times, you need to be a little dramatic to get it all out of your system.

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Things as of January, 2011

This is either a turning point, or simply the beginning of a long, arduous pattern.

I have no spare money, and yet I continue to spend because otherwise, there aren't really many ways to enjoy life. I've given up marijuana, and though it's only been about a week and a half, its absence is a cloud of prickling nerves and greedy, some times desperate wanting. I see my friends continue smoking. Some of them have actually given it up alongside me. It wasn't out of support for my cause, but I think that my quitting did serve as something of a wake up call for them so that they could address their own reasons for setting it aside.

I miss it terribly, but my desires are so unhealthy that I'm able to constantly remind myself why I quit in the first place. Outside of being in dire need of a new job, I simply needed to step away and re-evaluate just what smoking was doing for me, and also what it was doing to me. It let me forget all of my troubles and worries and woes, but also at the cost of numbing me to all of the issues that NEED to be addressed. It's not like I was ever any different than any other pot head. I think the only thing that may set me aside from my friends is that it was quite honestly the only thing holding my depression at bay. But I've been unhappy for so many years; I know how to handle myself in times of deep, unsettling black.

I'm so unstable. I've fought with everything in me to remove Christina and Megan from my life, and though the decision made was clearly the right one, it still hurts constantly. I'm lonely. Suddenly, into my life walks Kathleen, a lovely young lady that I've actually been semi-acquainted with for the past few years. We went out for coffee. After spending time having some laughs and drinking with a few friends, we kissed. Shortly after, we found ourselves in bed. She was very forward, but also completely up-front and honest, which was incredibly refreshing. And because my head is constantly somewhere between sick and really sick, I find myself already growing attached to her. In my defense, she is almost exactly what I've always looked for in a girl, and is easily everything that Megan could never have been.

She is seeing other people, and intends to keep it that way. I do understand fully, but she's charmed me so easily. I have to keep control over my sad, constantly fluctuating emotions, otherwise I'll simply chase her away for good and any hope I had will be lost. She seems into me. After we came together, we laid against one-another for some time and talked. Her words were so kind and felt so genuine. I honestly can't remember the last time I felt so calm and happy. The way that she speaks, I'm not sure if she is simply too kind for her own good or if I'm managing to charm her to my side. Her life is in perfect order. She's so intelligent, and has everything figured out. She makes things seem hilariously easy. But she says that there are many things about me that she admires. She says that she likes me, and that there's a sincerity in my voice that she enjoys listening to. It probably doesn't hurt that I'm pretty good in the sack. At least, that's what I've always been told.

A guy like me, whose focus is completely skewed and whose aspirations are barely even there, probably doesn't deserve a girl as amazing as she. I fall hard and fast - I know this about myself. But I didn't fall hard or fast for Megan. I have to admit that I wanted someone in my life, and that Megan was the only available someone. I grew to care for and even love her just the same, but it's true. She was a convenience. Kathleen is not a convenience. Kathleen is a pursuit worthy of every inch of me. But I cannot rush headlong into this without observing myself and my surroundings. I have been hurt badly, and I have to keep my perspective clear. The wounds Christina and Megan have left are not even close to completely healed, but I cannot allow that to hold me back. At the very least, I have to try.

Kathleen's options are wide open and she is appreciating that. I believe that she sees me as something possibly worth her time, but I'm certain that my lack of an education, a career and even a decent full-time job alarm her just the same. Assuming she'll simply see through all of that is an insult to her common sense. We're getting older now: this shit matters. A girl isn't just looking for a cute boy to go out with every other evening - she's looking for a future that she can be excited about. All the same, I can say with confidence that Kathleen is the kind of girl that I consider worth fighting for. She can do much better than me, and she probably knows that as well as I do. But I hope that she'll consider me as someone that she could be exclusive to. It would certainly be a beautiful stroke of good luck after the hellish way this past year came to a close.

It's Saturday night and our plans managed to fall apart right around 10:30 pm. After getting drunk and getting laid just twenty-four hours prior, I find myself home alone, writing sad little diatribes about my feelings. This toxic gunk that clots every available space in my conscious/subconscious seems permanent. I may simply be sad for the rest of my life. I can't keep chasing it away with narcotics, nor can I chase it away by simply ignoring it. I don't know if there is a solution to it or if it's simply a "chemical imbalance" or some shit. All I know is that it's there, and no matter how many times I've seen it go, it always returns.

I have no direction. I have given up on school forever. I am broke as all hell. I am recovering from a severe dependency on  marijuana. I am doing everything I can not to fuck things up with an awesome girl that may not even be all that interested in me to begin with.

I am complaining all the time.

I am still the same me I've always been and life is just getting more ridiculous and sad.

I am still complaining.

I'll stop for a bit.

Goodnight.

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