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Thursday, February 14, 2019


Who has it?
Not me.
Though I could
If I chose
But I choose not to.
I choose to forfeit
My right to be myself
To determine my future
Because I am fearful of the consequences
Of doing so
Even though I know
In my heart of hearts
That I could be happier
If I did.

It’s the little things
That indicate the person who
Cannot choose to be themselves
Who almost wants to suffer
To be a prisoner
Of the one who tried to imprison him
All those years ago.
The prisoner who therapists said
Could take control
Because everyone is entitled
To be free
To be themselves.
But if I was myself
I would murder and maim
I would cut out the tongues
Of those who might disrespect me
Or remove their legs in case they might
Move close to me.

I have been let down
By my parents
By myself
By hope
By faith
But not by love.

I have not been betrayed by love
(Outside of the family)
But each morning I rise
And wonder how to fill
Another meaningless day
Until I die
In 20-30 years.
That’s less than the time since
We first met.
In less than that time
I will be dead
And I am told
That that time will be
What I make it
And if I breathe from my stomach
And focus on the positive
And connect with the unborn self
And am alive to the present
But this is the fucking present
Right now
As I type this
This is the present
Where I am centred
And want to weep
Because I will never have control
I have forfeited that
To all the other people I encounter
Who determine my life
And I let them
And I seem to be happy with that
Don’t I?


Nature Strikes Back said...

"A poem of the act of knowing and of the limits of knowledge" Octavio Paz

Neil Partrick said...

It's wonderful that you would use what I think is a description by Paz of one of his own poems, to make a comment about my slightly inebriated musings. It could be said that my words reflect that I know myself in a reflexive way and that there are limits to this kind of knowledge (and its familiar refrains and pathways). But I may have the wrong end of the shit stick.