Where Has My Wit Gone?

Where has my wit gone to?

Lost in the digital world.

Too much searching for 10 minute love causes my mind to melt.

Digital desire is not true desire, I know and recognize that, but I still log on every nite! 

Maybe it has affected you too.  (I only say that in hopes I don’t sink on the ship alone).

electronic stalking is all I need to satisfy the beast within.  But when will it end? only with growth can I see a conclusion, followed by a prison cell or restraining order.

Where has my wit gone to?

Did I drop it in lake after an awkward conversation with a woman thinking my cuteness and shyness would be sufficient?

Perverts, voyers, and grimy pornography-
This is what you get when my mind is examined by professionals.
I feel frisky and desire to touch another person,
Physical contact is the thing I love the most.
But usually I just search for the five minute slut,
One who can stand my perverted desires and virginal sex talk:
Let's get naked, play with each other, make me feel good.

There is a tail side to this coin:
The closer I get physically, the more frightened I become.

Journal Entry #357

I've learnt that I'm broken.
I've been pushed too far to the end, and I've fallen hard.
My mentality is warped, my souls feels like a rape victim,
My body is broken and weary.
I want out.
I want to go home.
I've forgotten what I came here to run away from.

Just as it always does, apathy interrupted my normality (I've actually forgotten what normalcy is).

I don't have proper conversations, I just want to be around someone who makes me laugh.
I'm usually not the talker, or the inventer.
I'm the follower, the listener.
Blinded by apathy, all I want is ignorant contempt.

But there are times I yearn for intelligence;
In me, a reader and researcher is buried deep down.
Now, where are the instructions for excavation?

I have not been faithful to the God I grew up with (the God who was with us in childhood).
I did seem a bit happier when I talked with him.
Where have I cast the shepherd of my soul?

Winter is depression,
Spring is bi-polar,
Summer is manic, anger or rage,
but Fall,
Well, Fall is happiness and contentment.

Current Status

I've traveled to dark places in recent times.
No, I haven't just scraped the tip of the ice burg,
But collided with the 90% underwater.
The Mongol winter has raped my spirits and emotions hard.

Most days I am an empty vessel made of meat-
A drone possibly-moving with no heart.
I passively request aid since I'm too shy to blurt out my feelings.

I was not trained for this, coping with a depressed doppelganger.
I know this is not my true twin.  Where is he?
And where does this road end?
It's as ambiguous as the unpaved roads in
Chinggis's hometown.

Be I mad or scared?
I have intervals of both, a swinging pendulum.
Crossing over is as diving into the deep end of a pool.
But what happens to the individual when it stays on the bottom side too long?

Living & Working In a Foreign Land

The foreigner never sees himself/herself as an outsider, but as part of the whole.

The creativity doesn't flow as the raging white water of strong rivers.
No, it's a sitting stagnant creek only muddy and damp.
A true lifeless mundane low.

The eyes always watching my every move
Fill my mind with intimidation.
I suddenly have the desire to better myself.
But other times, when they call me buffoon
Behind my back, all progress wanes.

I forget my placement at times,
Thinking it's safe to be my personal self
With my personal habits.
That's how to become an outcast.

While I sit waiting for the answer,
The answer life moves past.
I feel I do nothing of importance, just bitch to my peers and coworkers;
Not fixing anything, but destroying it.

Crippling my newly formed relationships seems to be my forte

Untitled

(From before I went to Mongolia)

My mind and body don't work together.
Cooperation has never been my forte.
I am individualistic.

Hypnotic hills of the ancient horse land,
I beg you to expel your knowledge and secretes.
Push me into the gleaming love
Given in abundant proportions.
The truth is out there, and I attempt to find it by being thrown into the wolfs.

(Wouldn't it suck if the sublime I am so desperately looking for is behind the sofa?)

Floating On a Log Called Apathy

I took a walk on a sun filled day, preparing to visit my sweet and lovely gal.
On the way, through a lightly shaded path, a young man did play:
Floating in a pool, legs extended, arms stretching from too much sleep,
And the most bland yet pleasure-filled face a man could mask.

I softly walked as to not disturb the man from his much unneeded rest,
But while crossing the thin dry spat of land in a line (for I did not wish to muddy up my shoes and pant legs), I took the one archetypal wrong step and gently slipped (and possibly even glided)
down into the shallow pool, ending in a light splash.

Wet I was, and reacted typically in my mind, yet my body did not respond.
I need to get up! I thought.
That is my typical reaction: to get up, to dry off, and re-shower to remove the dirt.
But that did not enter my mind.
My new desire was to sit and stay in the coolness of the pool-
it calmed and shielded my body from the harsh sun.
Quiet.  Nice.  Peaceful.  The words roamed through my mind randomly.
And lovely, quite lovely, did the feel of the water on my limbs,
I was seduced by the pool; it was much needed from the sun's rays.

I sat myself up at the shore of the pool.
I saw the blue hue and immediately feel into it's treacherous trance-
that hypnotic color entered my eyes.
I dipped my feet in first, ever so gently.
Inch by inch I fell into total emersion.
At first it felt wrong and I fought it.
Then the man whom I saw earlier, floating down stream belly up turned his head to acknowledge me.
"Just relax.  If you fight it, you'll just ware yourself out.  Let go and flow calmly with the creatures below.  Become one with the water."

I was frightened to do so, to let go of the small amount of control I had,
but the man's short fragments made since somehow.
I decided to lay close to the shore, holding a small branched root.
I will chill here for a bit so I might be fully rested and ready for the
Remainder of the day.
How very wrong I was in my thinking.  My poor lonely bride would be awaiting for my arrive for ages.
I slipped down into the hypnotic blue and gently flowing current
Falling deeper and deeper into the trance.

To My Sweet Lady

You are as the rose,
Kind to the eyes and
A friend to the nose.
I wish not to pluck you forcefully,
as does the child and leave you to wilt in the heat.
But to gently grasp your stem and,
With care, remove as many roots as possible
So I may put you in my own flowering pot.
Keep you inside, place you on the windowsill,
And give you the attention you crave.

Thoughts On a River Bank

My mind is a dry river bed,
White webbed shit covers the rocks' smooth surface.
No living water or rushing inspiration to be found.
The few trees around are withered and dead.
Birds don't even use them for their nests.
Nothing but domesticated shit and the smell of decay
Surround my barren head.

The Hollow Men told me this would be the way the world ends.
I didn't believe it at first,
But I see it more with each passing day.

The death of the minds is the worst death of all
Or possibly the death of the spirit, but
Cannot a dead spirit rise for revenge?
What does a dead mind rise for?

Ode to Mongolian Winters

You break the spirits and do not rebuild them.
You are as a harsh tongue to virgin ears.
You kill by cold,
Leaving no evidence of your murder,
Letting the snow and ice cover up all the green and good.
You must surely dislike heat, since you freeze all you touch (the curse of Midas).

You destroy even the strongest wills.
How do you have such influence,
Such a connection to depression and apathy?
The world bows to you, and begs to let it live.
Do you laugh at the cries, the pleas for help?

Must you fill my heart with ice,
Stain my hands with soot?
This is the path to pain.

You have broken me, chilled my hands and toes,
Then kicked me while I was down.
I curse you heavily,
But it makes no difference, you ignore my tongue
And frost me with depressed thoughts

You strong winter are the death to us all.
You are the nightmare of the soul,
You are silent with death in your touch.
You, bastard, are my enemy.
Enemy of my spirit and will.
You crush the joy I once embraced

You force me to the indoors,
To huddle next to fires of wood, coal, and trash,
As the dirty bum I've become.

Why do you harm the meek?  Why do you kill the small?
What have we done to deserve your icy fists around our necks?

Thoughts On the Train

Mountains high enough to touch the God,

to reach the numinous.

Impart your wisdom onto me- make me

the wiser.

Dark cold nights cloud the judgement of men

as the sunlight is shrouded from us.

Now I walk blindly with a dying torch;

Only memory of the layout can help you now.

Moon shining high in the sky,

God of tides and water,

guide me as you do the waves

so I may find my way home

To see the next sunrise.

Mental Illness

Doctor. Come warm your bones by the fire,
wash your thick greasy brown hair,
wash the dust and coal off your jeans, only to find they are black and faded.
Your feet must be freezing, your fingers numb.
Isn’t your body exhausted? Why can’t you rest accurately?
Speak truthfully on how you feel, please.
I’m hear to give you shelter;
Don’t you know how to accept help?

Patient. The back of my eyes are burning.
Last time I felt nothing but cold.
I fear some part of me is collaborating with the external forces.
My guts, perpetually sick. My mind, warped. 
I’m out of answers and self-medications
(perhaps I didn’t originate with any).
Please give me some sort of sign,
An answer. Where do I sign for your help?

Lawyer. How do we know your testimony isn’t false?
What proof of sincerity do you have?

Patient. Look at the bags under my eyes.
Why are they so dark? Put some water on them,
Grab the cloth. If it be coal or soot, would it not wash off?
And yet these black curved lines, as if liner of a goth,
will not leave so easily. 
And look at my emotions, see anything?
How could you? They’ve all been frozen away by winter,
Leaving a numb fleshy container with no heart or spirit.

You speak of wanting truth of my pain, of my suffering.
Isn’t it obvious to your eyes? Are you truly that blind
Or do I hide it so well, fortified behind my bones? 
Now my physician, what is your answer--that I may follow it blindly.

Doctor. Judging from your appearance, your head has suffered the most damage.
You did not care for your mental health wisely.
I wish to keep you away from your
assigned environment for several days,
To thaw out your emotions and rest your troubled soul.
Eat a nice meal, find a warm bed, read a good book
Just rest your warn body.

Lawyer. But only stay as long as you need,
Not a minute more. You think this place has large pockets?
Doc, you know we have small finances,
Must you always be so sympathetic to all who enter?
Use your good judgement,
I know you have it. 
I beg you to reconsider. We must use our resources
On those who truly require it.
Not this sappy poet laureate.
His words may be false.

Doctor. And his words may be true.
You say I don’t use my good judgement,
but that is the mistake. I am trained in the ways
To extract bullshit from our employees.
I can read false from truth on faces and eyes
As words on the page of a book.
You think I be sympathetic, well I do care for all our creatures,
But perhaps you are not empathetic enough.
For all you care is the current financial state of this place,
Or perhaps just your own. 
You wring out every dollar you can of others,
Including me. Caring for taxes is no different as a shark attack in open seas.
You are bitten and dragged, the weight of the guilt from the harm,
Perhaps the killing, of those who need aid so desperately
Can pull you down into deep red water
As you struggle for freedom and breath for your lungs.
How can you do what you do?

Lawyer. You claim I dislike loving and caring for other.
I can read people as well,
But high doses of sympathy and love are just as lethal.
Others’ greed can grow when you give free handouts.
Wouldn’t having people walk on you be equally painful?
Or are you too naive to notice because your emotion of care
Blocks your judgement? 
How does giving aid to people work if they continue their dependent habit of taking from you?

Doctor. Oh ye of little faith. I believe,
Sooner or later, said people
Will become aware of their dependence,
Just as the drug addict when he falls to the bottom,
They will see their err.
From here, they grow and evolve and know
The proper time to request help,
And that is one shall give true aid.
You give them a taste,
then dependance,
then realization,
then evolution,
then reception of aid.

Lawyer. But what of those who never kick their malnutritious habits?
Those who always beg for help from others,
And show now attempt to change or realize their error?
They are the parasites attaching themselves to people like you,
Who freely give and give (and don’t you see that too much giving is wrong?).
These parasites will sick you, and those like you, dry
Taking and taking, then you have nothing more to give and they are still uncured.
You must cut them off before they take your good character or anything else of value.
You must recognize the behavior,
As soon as humanly possible.
For it shouldn’t be too impossible to notice these actions and traits they wear.
Wouldn’t you agree? 
How how does the great Giving Tree treat them?

Doctor. Are you so blind to believe people wont change?
We are designed to change:
physically,
mentally,
and emotionally.
We strive for more meaning in our lives,
From those with meaningless existences,
To those who live life the the fullest.
We can see others, then admit we want more;
we want what they have. A want to improve
It’s one of the great human traits we all embody.
But I see you , and those like you,
Only wanting to increase profits and figures,
Financial gain. Looking for other lives
To bring to ruins. But one day,
You shall see yourself as I do,
And have a grand desire to change yourself
And your ways of destruction; to expel your greed
Into the sewers.
Sooner or later, you will have the sight
Patience.

Now, please leave tax man,
For I wish no longer to debate with you.
I grow tired.
As for you my child of illness, what say you?

Patient. I am just as divided as when I entered.
Perhaps the whole world is in the same boat. Always,
Two different views of the same topic,
Two different means to act. How does
One know the truth, the correct way, when
People are created so diversely. Is there even a
Distinct right and wrong with every situation?
More importantly, how does one live in a world
Drowned in ambiguity? 
The entire earth is painted morally gray and
Argues perpetually about the different truths and
Lies. There is nothing purely factual , nothing truly
Paved with correctness,
As long as there are conscious beings present.

The truth my friends, maybe it is out there,
In the farthest reaches of the universe.
Or perhaps said truth is exactly as confused as we.
Moving from day to day, trying to get by;
Learning about us (as we it)
thinking, moving, pacing,
But not sitting still.

Untitled

Forcing makes things come out incorrectly or perverted,
All I want is my creativity.
I look for inspiration
Dirty jeans,

                   television,

twin girls,

                  alternative music,

All dead ends.

Why do I shove out creativity when my mind is a constipated colon?

Any definite answers from the peanut gallery?

I Am No Monk

There are times when I am desperate,
Lonely, and willing to try anything.
Like shaving off all my hair
And sit in the lotus position to gain enlightenment.
Or lie in bed while staring at the ceiling
Waiting, hoping, for the next plan to drop into my head (as the water drips from the faucet into the bucket).
In the desperate times, I am not my true self.
I am the pathetic fly, buzzing around for 24 hours.
I beg to the Lord to just tell me my purpose,
But all I receive is silence, leading to impatience

And so, I tend to perverse and disfigure myself,
Thinking I will gain insight.
But I am no monk.

Old Friends

My dear friend Mr. Coleridge, I wish to meet you more.
To converse and interact, to read poetry and ponder over with.
And if you come to this day and age,
There is much I wish to introduce you to.
My lovely poet friend from far away,
I am not able to eulogize you the proper way;
The way your deserve.
My mind wanders too far off the cliff of sanity,
And my mouth is miles behind it.
You deserve The Poet to portraitize you,
To bring the awareness you attempted to show,
And give it freely to the world.
I do not claim to be he,
But my heart and mind yearn to gain
Your intellect and absurdity.
You are brilliant.
I adore and respect thee.
None can obtain your thought or speech,
None shall be able to give you praise,
But those who are lowly can always try.