Her beauty poisons my soul

Her beauty poisons my soul.

Her art impregnates me and now I'm giving birth.

something in me is ripped. Not broken, but torn and hanging askew. It has to to do with women. It has to do with me.

Hatred born of impotence, the kind that drives people to arson.

Despair born of failure and more failure at an age that was too young to realize anything else was possible. Continued into the future by the holding in of emotion, untasted, building pressure, killing me.

I am sad, and tired, but my jaw is set. The dead bodies of shattered hopes bleed around me and I step over them on my path forward. I do not believe in lasting peace. Not with my heart, because it has only known the kind which was quickly fleeting. But my mind understands: it is possible. Perhaps likely.

And both head and heart understand that there is no real option aside from forward.

I am in a desert: I may not make it out before I die, but its more likely than if I just sit, or go in circules.

Half the reason for my single minded determination is my hatred for all that wants to slow me down. The darkness, ignorance, addictions, distractions, doubt, depression. I'm too pissed off at them to let them win. I'd rather die trying to kick there asses.

fuckers.

I'm very sad these days. Grieving something. Something I've lost, something that's been taken and I don't even know what it is yet because part of the loss was the loss of awareness of what it was.

It feels good to be that sad. Like it feels good to be pissed off. That bile that's built up inside of me, not allowed to release. A stuck pressure valve, finally exploding, gushing, gradually returning to normal as the pressure equalizes.

I am hopeful for the future. The 90 year old man in me sees what is happening and nods approvingly. He understands what is happening, he recognizes healing when it is happening, and he is unafraid of strong emotions, of other peoples opinions.

He knows he is right.

But the boy in me is sad scared frustrated and despairing. He cannot see any possibility of escape from his loneliness and self loathing.

And the warrior marches on.