Give Thanks

I like to think that I'm not so self-depressing that I would be thankful for every thing I've ever had, and ever been given.

I want to be that person desperately, but sometimes my inner thoughts have a sort of way in which they eat at themselves.

Wait... Go back.

Eat at themselves?

I mean, I guess... The more poetic word for that would be to say that they 'eat at me' or 'nibble and gnaw' like a black cancerous fungus that consumes me, leaving me speckled and discouloured.

Ah, fuck it. If I'm going to be looking raggedy, I guess I ought to be the thing that represents my inner self most, right?

Right?

Huh... No one to answer me. Isn't that philosphical. Philosophical in the way that I'm answering to myself and everyone gets to hear me writing about my more inner insecurities, like I'm painting black streaks on white walls, intending to 'paint the room black' in a sort of sense as if to relieve myself from my stress.

I guess you could say I am, or maybe I'm not.

But let's get on with it now, shall we?

Here, I might lie away [awake*]. Like the ceiling is spinning above me, or I spin below it, wondering when I will ever find peace in my living moments.

Not waking, not sleeping... Because we all know that sleep is a place where the further things chase closest.

No, it is here where I go to mash up all the innate intricacies of lie [life*]. Of the madnesses... Where I can't get back the moments in time where I was tormented by people of lessor morals, but where their deeds form into nonsense where my power goes away.

I hate them.

As I hate the sense in which they feel emboldened, stronger in the places where they didn't catch me in reality, but merely tore at my clothes and flesh with their dirty nails like it might take a bite out of me.

Here, here is the conquest that they sought so hard for. In my sleeping moments.

Where waking only allows me to rationalize that they did not win, for I am no prisoner for it.

But that is fine. This is... fine. I am all fine.

I am not broken, because on some night... Some night I dream long dreams. Some nights, I curl in, and I sleep with nothing there to demean... me, or my family, or any other. Because the only horrors in my reality, is where people damn and curse me with their vileness on untruths.

It's when the truth is laid bear, I'll stand firm and take the blows. Take bullets, take criticism, but when they lie, it's torture. My mind only knows.

I'm saddened that I am found by the torture of people of no morality.

People who-for all intents and purposes-get off to the sound of depravity, of yanking down someone they hate with all their being, like it's a great sense of tyranny wrought true.

But here, they can continue to feel proud.

Feel like they are winning the battle of attrition, and we might all point knives at each other, ready to gut each other like the Thanksgiving 'chicken' and break bread over the corpse to our winnings.

No, I am tired... Tired of the hard sleeps,

Of the nightmares that I'll never speak,

And of villains long dead from my life who's imprints have left marks in my unwaking hours.

I want to be free of it, but it's all my mind conjures.

A personality of all flours [flowers*], and silly -isms, like the ridiculousness born from me might make me blossom into this wonderful (whatever rhymes with this). I want to be done, or maybe condensed. Less... compressed?

Where was I going with this?

Let's be frank. I'll live less. Less in the past,

In my turmoils.

In the place where I close my eye and seek smiles,

smiles of those with glittering white teeth.

Gross, sick... perversions of themselves.

When do I ever wake? Wake up!

God. If there is one...

Can he stop showing me these? These people...

Those people. The ones who mean to do me harm, because it makes them feel better about themselves on this sick animal farm.

That's what I think, when I close my eyes.

When I lay my tired head to bed,

with sickness in my mind.

Because I'm ill with all the things intended upon me,

by those who had no other rational reason.

At least one, I can't see.

Where we all live,

Where I might breathe.

Let it be away from these...

Monstrosities.

That's what I think, when I want to give thanks.

To will away the pain, of the things that just take.

So let me thank those, from their genuine place.

I'm sorry.

I believe you.

I'm just a little... damaged. I'll be frank.