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Poem
I hate what is happening. 
It seems that there is in fact no good way out.  
All I can think about is failure, futile future.  
No end, a dead end, 
no joy or happiness, 
nothing worth the pain and suffering.  

I'm becoming less and less able to express myself emotionally. 
A retrogression, a return to fear and panic, 
not knowing, not feeling, scared, losing control, 
feeling disassociated from my life again, 
my emotions headed one way, 
me running scared another.  
The old things that always haunt me 
angry, scared, threatened, scolded, mutiliated, intimidated, lost, wrong, 
mostly wrong, 
like I should be some other way,  
I should be different than I am.  
I should be something different than I am.  
I should not bring pain and suffering to people.

I don’t like the pain in my stomach.  
But there is also some familiarity about it.  
A blow that was too familiar, 
too common in my growing up and usually meant loss, 
loss of will, of love, of hope.  
It feels too familiar, like there would be nothing that could be done now.  
Something would be taken away from me and I couldn’t stand that anymore.  

I think that might be what used to petrify me when I would get in trouble in school or anywhere else when I was young.  
A terrifying sense that something deep in my gut or deep in my balls was going to be taken from me.

And so, I'm glad that I'm gone--
the only way to preserve the fantasies of my heart and not be wrenched about as bits of my soul tear away; 
reality, like pumice, scarring into my heart that fantasies are part of hopelessness.

This is the first time that I have come to this way.
  
I wish I could move out of my skin and find something that I don’t have much idea what it is.  
In an away place, 
in mist,  
outside of any reality at this point.  
It just has to happen.  


1983
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