Daily I Discover More of Your Lies
God hates a liar
In shadows' grip, I once did stray, A dance with doubt, night and day. Gaslighter's words, a twisted song, But from that dark, I've since moved on.
In tangled webs of false embrace, I learned to see through veils of grace. Each manipulation, a lesson to heed, To find the strength, to plant my seed.
For in the depths, where truth does lie, I found my wings, learned how to fly. No longer tethered to their sway, I found my voice, reclaimed my day.
Through trials deep, I found my light, In the furnace of doubt, I forged my might. Grateful now, for the journey's chore, For it taught me how to close that door.
No longer bound by codependent chains, I stand tall amidst life's rains. For from the darkness, I emerged anew, Grateful for the lessons, oh so true.
In the whispers of dawn, new truths unfold, Yet tangled within, more lies untold. Each day unfurls, a veil to unveil, As falsehoods crumble, the truth prevails.
With each step forward, the curtain's drawn, Revealing more lies in the light of dawn. But in the unraveling, I find my might, To face the deceit with unwavering sight.
Though the journey is fraught with deceit's array, Each falsehood exposed, brings a brighter day. For in the depths of deception's guise, I unearth the strength to rise and rise.
So let the lies unravel, let them fall, For in their demise, I stand tall. With each discovery, a step I take, Towards a truth that no lie can shake.
So here's to the gaslighter's art, For in their shadow, I found my heart. Grateful for the strength I now possess, To navigate life's stormy mess.
In gratitude, I find my power, In every moment, every hour. For from the ashes, I rise, you see, Thankful for the person I came to be.
Paso Por Aqui
Paso Por Aqui
May 01, 2024
I own these streets
It is I that pay for them
It is I that defend them
It is I that keep the people who live here
From moving elsewhere
For my benevolence
I ask for very little
Perhaps and apple when I stroll by
Perhaps a greeting from another passing by
Perhaps something more
As I pass by here
The pavement is as solid as my word
However, today, others see cracks
Cracks mean weakness
And weakness means revolt
My streets do have cracks
As any grandmother has on her own skin
These cracks demand respect
For these cracks display the character
Of the person who earned them
I own these streets
And I’ll be damned
If another challenges me
For their possession
Maybe, I will begin
Taking possession of more than the streets
Maybe, I will want to own the people who walk upon them
Maybe, I will want some more than others
Maybe, I will want all of just one
Just to show what ownership really is
Morning
The first cup of coffee is the strongest.
Hot, smooth but slightly bitter with a hint of sweet to trick my tongue. I have waited all night for this moment to come. I savor it all from the bold smell to the heat, ready for the caffeine to bring me to my feet. A moment of time that I don't want to end. Waiting and longing for the next cup again. I gulp down my last sip and I feel the smile leave my face. I pour another hoping for the same taste. Warm and familiar it starts to perk me up, but nothing can beat that first cup.
One Star Review
I started writing a novel. I write roughly 800 words a day. It's slow going, and I have to wonder if the burn is too slow - if when we recount stories, ones we'd like to tell others, the candle actually burns in the other direction.
I have to wonder if my novel will get a one star review. If at the end of the day, the novel is for the audience, and not for the author themselves - but is surviving - writing prose that feeds some internal flame, living to see another day - for ourselves, or is it for others?
What if my novel never fills the void? Where does candle smoke go when there's no oxygen to even feed the flame; if a writer writes a novel and no one reads it, did it exist? Where does it go to make itself known?
This is already too abstract, and short, because I'm shot. I'm glad I'm embarking on this journey, but at what emotional cost? In the words of poet and writer Ocean Vuong, in his second-to-last Instagram post (because I'm not stalking him or anything), he says that he has completed his second novel - and that it took something from him that he may never get back.
Here's to leaving it all behind, to never getting back the pain, and the trauma, and instead making our stories of survival ones of hope, of our inner turmoil's flames going in one direction: skyward, where we can see the smoke spell out our dreams.
Early Morning Frost
Drifting quietly over the slumbering land
comes the unfolding blanket of snowflakes.
They look like a flock of whirling stars.
Joyful and laughing, they gather in groups.
Chasing each other and playing seasonal games.
Or they drift aimlessly
like confused runaway children.
Frightened and alone.
The leaves bid them a dry welcome
as they lay there whimpering softly
about their Springtime loves.
When in youthful green colors
they bedecked the trees.
And waved adoringly
To the sweet, young blossoms below.
Occasionally one would sacrifice itself
and float to the ground.
Landing near a cherished flower.
There, for just a short time
they would bask
in its special and unique fragrance.
Now, those days gone
they lay dried and decaying
upon the broken-hearted Earth.
Restless, they move about in deserted places.
As the hopeless snowflakes approach.
Errant Thoughts
I spend a lot of time thinking about worlds beyond my own. Places that may not even exist. I know it’s normal for someone like us, but actually going there, unfortunately, is not.
An ant seeing the side of a building has no comprehension of the colossal construct in front of it. It can’t comprehend the way it scrapes the sky like a steel claw, it can’t understand that contained within it are a million things that dwarf it in every possible way.
It certainly doesn’t find itself wishing to be a part of it. And yet, I find myself in the curious position of being an ant who does. I long to glimpse beyond into something clearly not meant for me, something well beyond me in every way.
I want that, more than anything. And the worst part is…I think I want that for everyone else too. Whether they want it or not.
Is that wrong? Does that make me a bad person? To want to forcibly rip the wool from the eyes of an entire world, even if they’re not ready, even if I’m not ready. Even if I had the power to do so, I don’t know if I should.
And yet, I find myself thinking, “When will we ever consider ourselves ready?”. We won’t. We never will. And so, why not.
In the immortal words of Bilbo Baggins, “Why shouldn’t I?”.
Hopefully, should it ever come to pass, should we ever draw back the cosmic curtain and find ourselves faced with the next great step in the celestial plan (if any exists), it goes better for us than it did for him.
Perhaps, just like him, it will simply take some time, muddling through chaos and hellfire, to reach an amazing destination.
Thanks for taking the time to read the egotistical ramblings of a Selfish Neurotic.