For a moment things were going my way
Then boom
Things flipped,
It was too much to quickly and yet not enough to confirm direction.
Sick of being a sideline act, called out by someone else's point of view
I am the star of my own.show and yet I claim no spotlight
I accept no.praise
And yet turn in anger when I start to get some of what I give out
I turn on myself
Self sabotage.
But not in that blow everything up, movie style way
Just in small movements, gestures, thoughts
To diminish my own presence
I hate love
I hate it's big ass pull on you
Yet love is just the mechanism by which we, I, humans protect life
Love a product of wanting to maintain life
To which I.give a royal fuck you.
Fuck you whoever, whatever created a being to know that they know nothing
Is that not the torment of hell
Or just the privilege of a non suffering state.
If your not fighting to survive you have the time to pish posh about.
And what of this pish poshing.
Dissipating energy,
The point of a dying star,
Why is it not called an alive star?
And which would I call myself?
Why call yourself neither as you know not whether you are the beginning or the end but from history...
From history,
From time,
You know you are a human who dies after using resources.
The only thing which is of your creation is your energy
And unfortunately,
Most of the time I don't even like mine.
Maybe what I give to others,
But with a view so distorted by self doubt,
It is with an fog of loathing in which I am surrounded.
There was a period of humour,
Where I brought the jazz to the jizz.
It is the artists that bring life to surroundings,
Yet my expression is stunted.
I am a curator of life at best.
Really I would definitely say I am explorer,
With the distinction that I have a misguided compass, double entendre?
No contradiction,
I seek what can't be found,
The why.
There is only belief and I no longer believe.
Yet I'm still a conditioned being and feel it.
I feel love still.
And so am torn.
In my hated love-life!
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