A Tornado named Torment

I wrote this one probably about a year and a half ago, in my journal, and I never shared it because it was too intense and too personal, but now, I suppose, in my recent purging of poetry and writing I want to share. Over the top of the poem I wrote a Shakespeare quote, "past reason hunted and no sooner had, past reason hated". So, enjoy:

Here's to you,
you asshole,
and to me,
your hobby.
Here's to an endless train
of thoughts,
devoted entirely to you,
steaming fast,
headed
nowhere.
Here's to the
sparkle in your eye,
that speaks worlds to me,
unspoken to the world.
Here's to hopelessness
so hopeless it becomes a joke,
and how seriously I take it.
Here's to a passion
without rest
and a yearning
without satisfaction.

You're a drag on a cigarette.
I breathe you in,
and breathe you back out,
and you feel good,
but my heart is become black.
And I don't care.
In my mind, I tear
your life apart,
simply to accommodate my own,
and it's so easy.
And I don't care.
I don't care.
And yet I care too much.
You are the object of my desire,
you remain a lottery,
the odds are stacked against me,
I cannot win.
Still you are the object of my passion.
An object nonetheless.

You hold a strange
power over me,
which I fail to fight.
Because of you I hate myself,
my inability to resist.

My mind a tornado,
I call it torment.
Debris of me,
of you,
of a distorted world,
and a one-track mind.
Here's to you:
fuck you.
And to me:
the same.

The Letter

Yeah, I wrote it.
And I addressed it
to you.
And I've said the things
I've wished
I could've.
Yeah, I wrote it.
About fucking time.

Yeah, I wrote it.
And there's no
going back,
not now, or ever.
One of these days,
I suppose,
you'll respond.
About fucking time.

Yeah, I wrote it.
And I won't regret it,
regardless.
And if I'm lucky
maybe later I'll think
I should've written
that fucking letter
sooner.

The Glory of the Fuck You,
it's a piece my friend
wrote once.
Fucking brilliant,
and just so you know:
I won't be taken alive.
And if I'm going down,
I'm going down swinging.

My heart is wide open
and my guns are blazing.

I will live, and I will love,
and this world and all of its shitty rules
can't fucking stop me.

Dear Life, (3)

I'm scared.
I know this is
my third poem to you,
(in four days)
but my feelings
toward you
change daily
(and I'm surprised
I haven't written more).
I don't know how
healthy this is,
I don't think
it's healthy at all,
trying this hard
to correspond with life.
You obviously
haven't written back
and at this point
I just don't get it
(Or maybe I get it too much).
Can't someone just
fucking tell me?
What the hell am I
supposed to do?
I'm more suicidal now
than I have ever been
before, and I'm scared.
There, I said it.
I want to run away,
but I can't escape myself.
God how I wish I could.
You forced me to build
this self-contained prison,
and I want out.
The mind is too torturous,
too manipulating,
too calculating.
If there is anything
I don't want to do,
it is to make life unbearable
for others.
I can play nice,
and smile, maybe even laugh;
but the truth is I'm cracking.
I'm scared of following
my logic through to finish
because maybe I'm not selfless
enough to keep on living.
Maybe I'm burning bridges
because I wish that I could cry
about something,
anything,
to remember what it's like
to feel human.
I'm lost at sea,
and every day I'm drifting, slipping
a little bit further away,
so won't you throw me
a life line,
please,
it's the least you can do
(I like to think).
I'm scared.
I've never hated myself
like this before,
and I don't know how much longer
I can tolerate it.
Maybe I'm not over religion,
maybe this battle rages
between my old ideals
and my new-found realism,
but like I said,
I haven't a clue.
All I know is that I'm done
with the same
old
shit.

Dear Life, (2)

i know we've had our differences
(differences meaning
that I am forever wishing
that you were something
you are not),
but today
I would rather
we just get along.
The better part of today
I spent dark.
My mind stained blood red
thinking of endless possibilities
(endlessly searching
for an end),
plotting escape
and freedom.

Sometimes, life,
I think you have it in for me,
these are the times I write
self-righteous and indignant
poetry upon the pages
of a well-worn and loved novel,
because I'm convinced, life,
that you will never grant me
the opportunity
to produce anything near
that which I esteem so highly.
I pretend, if you will,
that I could be something,
an author worthy of publication,
worthy of being read,
worthy of thought,
and worthy of influencing others
in the same way I am influenced
by those I admire.
Too often you laugh
at my pipe dream,
but today, life,
accept my first gift to you:
a peace offering
in the form of a poem.
A poem written on the back
of several receipts,
mostly for cigarettes.
I write here:
I accept my mortality,
all things temporary,
the fact that I may never
amount to anything,
the fact that this poem
may never be read
or published
or given a second thought.
I accept, for now,
that you will not be moulded
to my desires,
that my well-being
really is none of your concern,
and that it may not get better.

Today you gave me hope,
and so today
I accept your terms.
So please, let's get along,
maybe even learn to enjoy one another,
because for now we have a truce,
we are both nothing other
than what we are,
and I can't help it
and I know that you can't either.
We are both bound
by our own chains
of existence,
of co-existence.

Sometimes I forget about birth
in the midst of death,
mostly, I think,
birth is a means to an end,
how tragic and unmerciful
you can be.
And I'm not afraid of dying
but I admit that I'm terrified
of living,
and what option do I have,
but to live out my fear?
Thank you, life.
I hate you but I'm trying.

Dear Life,

I've been wondering,
why is happiness inequitable?
Why do you cater more
to some socio-economic groups
than to others?
Why, when I enjoy a meal,
do millions of others
sit hunched over in hunger,
and what did I ever do
to deserve such a privilege?
Why does it seem nothing
but your very ambition
to distribute inequality?
You're dealing shitty hands
like there's no tomorrow.
Are you biased?
Prejudiced?
An asshole?
Who decides the rations,
and why don't they
fuck up less?
I know I'm fortunate,
I have opportunities, I'm lucky,
if I take these I can help,
maybe make the world a bit better,
maybe.
And I know to squander my life,
to take it all for granted,
would be like spitting
in the face of those
who don't have food,
money,
an education,
a job,
or a chance at any of the above.
But sometimes
it feels as though
the only way to express
the truest contempt
for the depth of injustice
embedded in reality,
the fibres of injustice woven through
all we stand upon,
is to escape reality altogether.
I don't want to spit in the face
of those less fortunate,
and believe me if reality
had a more discernible face
it would be my target.
I'm sorry I'm not more
of a success.
Sometimes I think,
to deny reality,
to vanish wholly from it,
would be the biggest
middle finger
it could ever receive.
Much more than a 'no, thank you',
a 'what the fuck',
an 'I hate you',
or even an 'I want nothing to do with you'.
It's an outright
'I will not exist as long as you do,
and if that means forever,
then so be it'.
It's the biggest slap in the face
upon principle alone
that life has ever seen.
And so, life,
today that's what I think.
And some days we don't get along,
and I don't know how to reconcile
our differences.
Any thoughts?

A Summary?

You made me laugh,
we rolled joints,
we we swam in the lake,
smoked too many cigarettes
and made pancakes.
Remember when we fell
over Jimmy Hendrix's feet?
Well, that was the moment
I fell for you.
You make me feel alive,
you make me want to live.
And yes, you showed me miracles.
but I would be lying
if I said they weren't
couple with some devastating
blows of disappointment.
I've never expected much
from anyone,
but for me honesty tops the list.
There is still so much to you
that is hidden, a mystery
beyond me,
yet I dealt benefits of the doubt
like there was no tomorrow.
Now tomorrow has arrived,
and I have no regrets
but I'm hurting, and I blame
no one but myself.
Vulnerability, perhaps honesty,
will make fools of us all,
and so perhaps you were
the clever one,
writes the fool.

To Love

I don't know quite
what you did to me,
but whatever magic you wielded,
it worked.
I can honestly say
that I've never been this head-
over-heels,
no-head-on-my-shoulders,
far gone.
And I can honestly say
that I'm the biggest fool
the world has ever seen,
yet I can no longer conceive
of being anything
else,
and sometimes I'm convinced
that that's all I really want,
as awful as it sounds.
The battle wages,
head versus heart
round six billion and two
(and if experience could speak,
it would probably advise my head
to just throw in the towel),
and what do I (what does 'I'
even mean anyway?) want?
I don't fucking know.
Him.
But an honest him, a trustworthy him,
and that's something
I just can't seem
to wrap my mind around:
my fault or his?
I want to know
just how cheap his words are,
and how he feels when he speaks them.
Do they feel dirty
coming out of his mouth?
Or make him swell with pride
at his cunning words spinning webs,
covering his tracks,
wrapping those nearby carefully
around his finger?
Or perhaps it saddens him
to speak the truth
and have so much up against him
that his truth becomes blurred?
I am drawn to you, to him,
like a moth to light,
which I fucking hate
because, really,
have you ever watched a moth in action?
Sucker. And yet that's me.
Spinning in circles in my head,
trying to reach the goddamn light,
despite my knowledge
of Icarus' tragic
fall.
I'm too high
off the fucking ground,
everything looks so
minute,
my head is in the clouds
and I can't fucking see
straight.
The sun is probably
misleadingly close
and if I'm not careful
my wings could melt.
Or is this already the downward spiral
I find myself in?
Love, seriously, fuck you.
I'm mad - or -
"Not mad, but bound more than a mad-man is;
Shut up in prison, kept without my food,
Whipp'd and tormented and—"
- and quoting Shakespeare.
Seriously, love, fuck you.
Why did you force me
to create such a high pedestal
that I cannot even see him
whom I placed upon it?
Most inconvenient,
and pretty much just fucking bullshit,
but goddammit I'm powerless against you, love,
and what can one do?
Remember all the dandelions
and shooting stars I wished upon?
Well, all of those wishes were for him (and you),
and sadly I can't say that one of them
turned out true,
then again maybe I just can't tell.
(Oh, second guesses,
you are so full of shit,
then again, perhaps correct.)
I don't know if I should keep on wishing,
maybe one day,
my wish will come true,
right Jiminy Cricket?
I never gave much heed to what I deemed
romantic sap, idealistic shit,
but I've been turned into
a romantic sap, an idealistic shit,
giving too much heed to it all.
Rationality, why, oh why,
have you forsaken me?
Left to my ridiculous thoughts
weaving their ridiculous plans
of hopeful bliss
or what I think is happiness,
I approximate: I'm fucked.
Well, shit.
I don't know if Bill understood you,
(I don't know if anyone does)
but I think he knew you better than I,
"Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke,
cold fire, sick health!
...This love feel I".
Love, you are forever transforming,
and today you rear your ugly head.
And what tomorrow,
a tender kiss?
Or perhaps a tackle at the knees?
(Don't be offended,
you always make the lowest of blows,
I would return the favour
if only I could figure out your weakness.
Samson had hair,
Achilles, a heel,
Creon, hubris,
me, him.
But you, you are impenatrable,
unbreakable,
and everyone's always saying 'love wins',
whatever that means.
Perhaps I'm no match for you,
but I'm going to give you
a run for your money,
and maybe your strength will overcome me,
but my rationality, I swear to you,
will fight tooth and nail
just to see that you don't render us all
fools,
and maybe that's my hubris talking,
but c'mon, let's not lie,
the force is strong with me.
And fuck, you're winning already
because I definitely made that reference
for him.)
Love, I know you're probably sick
of the endless stream
of ranting passionate poetry
directed at you, always,
by suckers like me,
but that's just what you get,
for being you,
and taking a whole lot more (sanity)
than you ever seem to give.
As a final request, love,
I'd really appreciate it
if you would shut the fuck up
long enough for the voice of reason
to get some words in edgeways,
as then I might stand a fighting chance.
Thanks.
With love,
Corissa

I am willing.
I wonder if it's worth it.
I hear bias, prejudice, presumption.
I see beauty in x.
I want honesty to speak in authority on everything.
I am willing.

I pretend that I'm invincible.
I feel hunted.
I touch not enough skin.
I worry that I gamble on too much.
I cry when I feel most human.
I am willing.

I understand that there's only so much I can do.
I say that I'll do it.
I dream of idealism and going home and traveling and poetry and you.
I try to keep my chin up.
I hope I don't fuck it all up.
I am willing.

Thus Writes The Fool

I suppose this is what you get
when you put yourself on the line.
Regardless what you expect,
you're stuck with what happens,
and figuring out where to go
from here.
I want you to know that
I wore my heart on my sleeve
(by my standards, at least),
against all odds
and despite my better judgment.
I wore my heart on my sleeve
(by my standards, at least)
not because I was in denial
or because I thought
it would all turn out perfectly,
but because I wanted to live,
and sometimes taking a gamble
is what that means.
Risk-taking pays off one way
or another,
and it didn't pan out this time,
but there's always a next,
and I will gamble on it
because I want to live.
I gambled on you,
I lost,
and life has me quite pinned down
in several different rings,
but I swear I'll make
a fucking comeback
despite everything.
I want you to know
that I really wanted to know you,
and that the moment we fell
over Jimmy Henrix's feet
was the moment I fell
for you.
Not that it makes a difference
either way, anymore, because
you're still hidden,
a mystery beyond me.
I want you to know
that I dealt benefits of the doubt
like there was no tomorrow,
and now tomorrow has arrived
and I have no regrets
but I'd by lying if I said
I wasn't hurting,
yet I blame no one but myself.
Vulnerability, perhaps honesty,
will make fools of us all,
and so perhaps you were
the clever one,
writes the fool.

Once Again To Love,

I'm sorry about my last letter.
Not that I didn't mean every word
I wrote, because I did, but today
it struck me
that you're not all bad.
It's just that you and your friend life
(or are you friends?
I guess you don't always go
hand in hand)
have got me by the balls,
(excuse my language)
and most of the time
I just don't quite know
what
to do about it.
Love, the truth is
you get me through just as many rough days
as you cause
(and you cause a lot of rough days).
But I just wanted to write to you,
as a sort of terms of agreement:
I cannot promise to refrain from writing
more furious poetry at you in the future,
as (let's be realistic, here, shall we?
Are you capable of realism, love?
Don't be angry,
I only jest.
Sort of.)
that will be inevitable
at one point or another.
I'm honestly
still pretty pissed at you
for winning, like they always say you do.
But, no matter,
there are more important matters at hand:
my sanity.
Please, whatever you do, spare it.
My mind is really all I have,
and I'd like it to remain
(for the most part, at least,)
intact.
That really is my only stipulation, love,
everything other than that
is fair game,
all is fair, love, in war.
And this is.
In return I submit myself
to this fucking mercurial shit
that I somehow cannot do without.
Love, I will take you on,
once again despite the odds,
despite what I know,
what may come
and what I may suffer.
Throw every curve ball you have,
bring it the fuck on.
So it is settled.
As a post script, I'd like to share
with you a Cuban philosophy,
my blazing middle finger to you
in acceptance of your challenge:
jodido pero contento,
fucked but happy.