I've been thinking recently of how very far I've come in some ways, and how great the distance is for me to go in others. I dug up some olde poems from my dark days, and sadly, a few lines still resonate within me today.
24 January 2008
There are others, then there's me,
alone on a stoop, sitting lonely:
Head clutched in hands, toward the ground
Unlike most others, my world isn't round.
It exists narrow and confining in my mind's haze
Colorless; sepia-toned on my brightest of days.
Its axis is broken, the seasons stagnated
and I wonder why I deserve a life so suffocated.
Will my agony allow me to help the unfortunate?
Or is it punishment for a previous life of hate?
The grand scheme doesn't matter in the end
as I sit on a stoop, head held in hand.
Ok, I know it may sound the cliche blaming of a parent for one's problems, but the following poem was not, and is not, a slight against my departed dad. It's just a consequence of how he raised me.
Contending with Composure
Dad's standards were exacting;
the ramifications everlasting:
Facade built for my indoctrinator
Fighting against human character.
Too many years of suppressing with zeal
afford me no opportunities to reveal
the State of my mind perilous,
Shrouded Psyche tenuous.
I'm surrounded by emotional escalation
yet withdrawn into solitary isolation.
Inculcated to keep control, no matter the pain -
my fragile core must constantly be self-contained!
Obedience has brought me desolation,
Depression resilient in its intensification.
Even for those that would matter
My guarded shell cannot be shattered.
Thankfully, I realize I've been able to crack my shell, so to speak, and am now working on maintaining the progress I've made.
So, I totally realize this is a dark post, there will be more to come, but I'll try and mix it up with some light ramblings ;-)
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