Long Loathing Poems
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1
We say the word, “mental”,
like we would spit.
But there are no pills
for waking dreams;
the pills that we
could only take in dreams
to take us to another place
as yet imagined
as everything the tortured soul
could conjure.
And perhaps we are so strong
the torture
is our heartbeat.
The waking dreams
like baseball bats
might beat us
into ditches
of self-loathing,
then lie with us
the way dark friends would do
and tell us there is comfort
in familiar suffering.
We can touch the mental
like a weed
and treat it
with the swipe of energy
that only comes
when arms react
to smite the one
that would threaten them.
2
All things come to those who wait,
the adage goes
and so we do
as we are told
and hope there is trust
in the world.
But as we
twiddle thumbs
and scratch our names in wood
that never was a tree
we are the silent ones:
the kids of parents
who imagined
that what they'd heard
and spoken and done--
the slap, the strap--
would do the trick
in place of hearts
that never cared to beat.
3
“Mental Illness”
is the phrase they use
for ignorance; not knowing
what to do
or how to do it.
“I did all I could”, they say
in the face of ruin
and imagine they are right
because the cannot know
responsibility or competence
or caring.
Art is colors on a wall.
Music is notes pounded
on some keys.
God died the day
he was invented
and the children of the living
must now wander
as the spawn of negligence.
We can only hope
that somewhere souls remember
and that through the years
they grow to be an army
to claim what bodies have survived.
4
“F**k you”, I say to beauty
or anything else that passes
for conviction
or truth
or hearts we tell ourselves
that we possess.
Beauty is masturbation.
Love is the perversion
we ejaculate in darkness.
I would be glad
for one true voice
that says that heaven
is at hand
and mean the painted streets
as gray as any dawn
we'll ever see
is all we can expect.
Tell me one good cup of coffee
is Nirvana
and I'll drink it
and be thankful
to be free
of chains that bound me
to the rock of longing.
Drugs come in all shapes and sizes
But the essence is the same
Providing a something we feel lacking;
A hit of pleasure and fulfillment
In instant gratification.
The problem then becomes one
Of cascading cause and effect
As the short cut route
Undermines self-esteem
As we know in our hearts
We are a thief, living a lie.
The drug expresses in the extreme
This paradox of being and desire
Giving us what we want, but leaving us empty;
Widening the lack we started with
Until it is a moat filled with only self-loathing.
The wisdom to be learned
Is always a matter of perspective.
The soul after all
Yearns to be a master not a slave,
And that which is beyond grasp
Is by definition unable to be bound.
This is the perspective we need to be free.
Perhaps emptiness is just a given
And our desire to fill it it’s natural expression,
And in our confusion we mistake
The object of desire with its fulfillment.
We may live a lifetime
Thinking we are attached to the nouns of our existence
All the people, places and things we know and love
When we are really just attached to living.
(12/17/24)
I was sitting at the bar
Cursing my absence of a lucky star
It had, for me, been an awful year
When much to my surprise
In the mirror before my eyes
Was a reflection that reflected rather *****
Sitting in the reflection on the stool
Where I was crying like a fool
Was a three-headed image of a beast
One head was just a child
One of a man who looked quite wild
The other didn’t resemble me in the very least
I actually put my hands on my own head
Feeling for the other two heads instead
When the reflection started to laugh and guffaw
I took a quick look around
But no one else there I found
Then turned back to this vision that I saw
It said, “We are all alone
I told the bartender to go home
So you and I could have a little talk”
I tried to get up off my chair
But my legs were no longer there
And I knew I had nowhere left to walk
The child head began to cry
The wild man plucked out his one good eye
The middle head just looked at me and winked
“You’re acting like a baby
You’ve gone blind and half-way crazy
Things aren’t as bad as you might think”
“Your troubles will not resolve any quicker
By drowning them in liquor
And these heads won’t merge back to one
Until you accept responsibility
For in the mirror what you see
And undo all the harm already done”
I knew the image was probably right
My self-loathing I must fight
The only one to blame sat on the stool
When I glanced back up in the mirror
The image there became much clearer
And once again it was the face I thought I knew
The bartender was back in place
Other people filled up the space
My legs were back where they belong
I wasn’t sure just what to feel
I figured what I saw must not be real
As I listened to the juke box play a song
The bartender said, “Your drinks are on the beast
And your troubles will not decrease
Until you face them one problem at a time”
That was the last drink I’ve ever had
And my life is no longer bad
At least, not as bad as in this rhyme
My inner child has been put to bed
Both good eyes are in my head
And for lucky stars I no longer cry and pray
I take the blame for things gone wrong
But fix each problem before too long
And embrace each and every coming day
Written and posted on 3-4-2014 for the "Angel of the Odd" Contest
Empty Closets
by Odin Roark
How empty the content
Delusion's walk-in closet
Hideaway's glory
Filled to burst
Collected identities
Acquired by proxy
Guarded by duplicity's two-edge sword
Honed by loneliness
Obsessive darkness
Filled with fantasized self-esteem
Like titanium power clubs
Cradled in his and her golf bags
Overcrowding the weekend corner
Opposite nook
Knee-high leather boots and riding crop
Squeezed against stolen lawn jockey statue
Draped with fading award sashes and ribbons
A brittle rose wreath
Once drenched in winner's circle sweat
Now but an ever-withering benchmark
A once decorative memento
For glory's insatiable ego
Such becomes
Yesterday's self-worth
Today's self-loathing
Some day's garage sale
Junk heaps growing
Behind garish symbols of self-deception
Stacked boxes of innocence gathering dust
Memorabilia of childhood
Forgotten memories of broken in mitt
Paper dolls and Eloise dreams
Varsity jacket and autographed pigskin
All honesty's once joyful rewards
Stashed away
Remaining aware
And wondering
In the closet's darkest corner
A stalwart broom stands at the ready
Its gallant sweep-it-away tradition
Remains anxiety's go-to warrior
Merely biding its time
Awaiting the door to open
And...
What is a hit list?
"A list of people or things to be killed for criminal or political reasons"
The first and utmost thing I etch on my hit list is hatred
for it is an enemy that always turns me blind
The second thing I scribe beneath the first is jealousy
for it is an emotion that eats away at me and turns me sour
The Third is toxic people who always put me down
for they are the ones that make me feel so very small
The fourth on my hit list is self- loathing,
it distorts my truth and paints a blurry picture of the real me
The fifth is fear, it renders me immobile and I can't do a thing
for its as false as a fickle jackal and I don't want it for a friend.
I can go on and on but you caught the drift I'm sure,
if assaulted by these pests turn into a lion, then roar !!!
January 30, 2023
A golden coin flipped into the sky
One side is absolute truth
the other side is stamped with lies
Hope it lands right/wrong side up
so you can partially realize
the truth doesn’t always set you free
Sometimes deception leads to wise
Neither side exists
without the other
Truth and lies are Siamese brothers
Born of necessities
yet neither of them has a mother
Look up look down
all things can offend and bother
Absolute truth or filthy clean lies
there are so many things that they Father
We are temporary our purpose is significant fodder
so through our inequities we wander
Spin the coin
the image you will see
is the blending of who we think we might be
Witness our insanity
by looking back at lying throughout history
Yet there is truth hidden
flickering within the spin
start over finish
once more begin
Words alone can’t set us free
Centrifugal force thinking
trapped inside each possibility
Rooted in our impure paternity
Watch how friends become the enemy
Perspectives changing depending on adversity
Truthfully can anyone know
who they are meant to be
Rise up or see life on bended knee
What is it that words hope inspire
A coin can only be destroyed by fire
Live life find what you desire
We’re all tethered together
by a hidden wire
Truth or a lie
lower and higher
Kind or cruel
or self loathing despiser
We’re born of muck and mire
Aspire to be a flyer
or maybe just a consumed buyer
Still all energy will eventually expire
do it all before you tire
Tell the absolute truth
or if you choose be a liar!
06/25/2018
Submitted to Brenda Chiri's Abandon Poetry Contest.
Ensure that when you walk away
You don't rush into someone new
Just because you are fearful
Of your own company
If you are not at the point
Of loving yourself or
Of being comfortable on your own
How do you expect to be receptive
To new experiences?
You can never share yourself
Completely
If you don't love yourself completely
Don't expect someone else to love all of you
When you carry self doubt and indecision
About yourself within you
Self doubt and loathing
Will be part of your new relationship
Don't start on the back foot
You deserve better
So does your new partner
Clear your head
Heal your heart
Don't go in broken
No one can heal your lack of love for yourself
That is an inside job
©111020151602
Why do politicians lie
And our wallets deftly pry,
Puff and bluster all the time
Their intent to cheat sublime.
Are we dumb or just naive
Of that talent to deceive,
Smiles aplenty to go round
While broken promises abound.
Why venerate them so
And not tell them where to go,
Pay good money after bad
The whole thing is rather sad.
When we put them to the test
They begin their quest with zest,
But time passes all too fast
Their resolve's not there to last.
We vote them out and start again
And get another just the same,
This conveyor belt of life
Sure to bring us yet more strife.
What solution may we ask
To complete this ingrate task,
Maybe ply them all with drink
Hoping this will help them think.
As to us, let's tune them out
Find a corner where to shout,
Release the loathing and emotion,
Survive the show and the commotion.
Let's be real and rather blunt
Lest our message we might stump,
There is another old profession
That earns its money by the session.
We might as well embrace the ride
Taking bumps full in our stride,
For if we blot out all the noise
They become mere soulless voids.
There is silence in turmoil… joy in the midst of pain
Sweetness in the bitter… music in the rain
There is light in darkness… illuminated faith shines
Hues of colorful sighs… insights into the signs
There is beauty in unsightliness… kindness in the lost hope
Gentle warmth in a chill… that leaves a way to cope
There is laughter in the sorrow… mirth in the grim
Even though there is mourning… that leaves the eye dim
There is a whisper of inspiration… soothing away the cry
Allowing a tear to pierce the heart… mute the brightest sky
There is grace in the loathing… even hatred brings insight
Precious moments of understanding… can bring pure delight
There is goodness in the shame… for it means a heart is contrite
No dishonor in remorse… even disgrace is brighter in the moonlight
There is warmth in the winter… even though ice chills the bones
Fires breathe tenderness… to those who won’t throw stones
There is caring in the selfish… when they mend their greed
Welcoming the attention… of those who are selfless indeed
There is love in the callous… even a hard heart can be thawed
When there is the compassion… to give mercy we should applaud
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 9 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
July 21, 2022
Life is a short drive,
though the ways be long.
A journey twists and turns
before it can be made straight.
He drove many cars,
most had six windows.
in each window a girl, or woman
peered inward.
one was named ‘love’,
she looked through the front windscreen,
likewise, those named ‘fear’,
‘loathing’, and ‘sorrow’
looked through the four side-windows.
Lastly, the one named Sophia,
(she who stays faithful to the end),
looked inward through a rear window.
Sophia; blessed the road
as it veered this way and that,
until the road let go of the car,
and the car let go of him.
The journey and the man,
became one with the wisdom
of a journey taken,
and though he passed away,
as all travelers must,
Sophia drives ever onward with him.