Dedicated to the self-loathing, the cutters, the suicidal. It's okay.
Earning my stripes
and loving it.
The mysteries in life
can remain just that:
our last sense of wonder.
Oh, I love you Mystery!
You keep me sane
in this world constantly needing answers,
forgetting the journey,
attached to results.
I wish I could use a catapult
to fling over mother culture’s wall of oppression
all the heads of those who couldn’t survive
in a world so backwards
and out of sorts.
They chose death
over the constant repression of self,
believing that this life of taking
is all there is and ever will be.
Congrats domination society,
your trophy room is abundant with
the corpses of precious humans
who recognized their desire to give
but fell, hopeless, on their knees before you
‘cause you tell us to stand in line
with our heads down
and our hearts obedient
to your understanding of life
revolving around rape and pillage
of cultures who talked with plants
and lived in harmony with nature,
symbolized by song and dance.
If only those who succeeded in suicide
had the time to realize
that we don’t have to live by anyone else’s standards
but our own.
We are not safety hazards,
we are sacred molds
of pain and love and joy and hate
here to constantly be
the time we have
with an existence so impermanent.
It’s our right to pursue happiness you say,
setting us up for murder of the soul
you toss out your bait
into a pool
full of eager minds and restless hearts
not recognizing that they pressed “start”
the moment they were born.
Standards, rules, regulations
the use of “right vs wrong” language
are the garments in which you adorn
to ensure their obedience.
I stand here to give you the middle finger.
A survivor of suicide multiple times over,
refusing to believe
that there is something wrong with me
cause I feel depressed more often than not
cause I’d rather love and accept
than speak in terms of “should” and “ought.”
And if that means the occasional earning of stripes
via uncontrollable tears and a sharpened knife
so be it.
It’s a matter of perception.
So call me crazy
and my scars ugly.
Lock me away if you must,
on the premise that my thoughts render me unhealthy.
But you better believe and you better trust,
that there are so many of us
who take on the pain that you say must be escaped
with pills and busy schedules
and the constant accumulation of stuff.
Yeah, there are so many of us
who have had enough
and don’t always know how to express our love
so we show our beauty with our cuts.
Oh yes. It’s beautiful.
A fine representation of chaos
manifesting it’s ability to bring about peace,
even if just for a moment.
Cause these moments add up to a lifetime of stories
tied together with red string.
If the string’s not red, are you truly living?
Sure, I struggle with happiness.
But I feel for those who don’t know suffering
and have trouble looking back at all the history
of bloodshed and genocide that humans bring
to each other for the sake of greed
I’m not encouraging self-harm,
I’m on my own journey,
Of falling and rising
and laughing and crying
and giving and giving,
cause to me, that’s living.
I’m not saying I know what’s right for all,
I only know what works for me
and sometimes that means
embracing what you deem ugly.
I fully accept my existence,
I take complete responsibility
for the life I live
and the lessons I heed.
So tell me I need comfort
and ways to ease the pain.
I’ll do what feels right for me in each moment
my truth tells me it’s all the same.
I don’t have the answers
and I don’t need them.
I take refuge in life’s mystery,
I continue breathing
in and out
and sometimes I do find comfort
with the presence of insecurity and doubt.