He asks me to write a letter,
A letter in which I may,
To my so-dearest father,
Vent my rage and my hurts
Without the weeping or screaming
The necessarily comes with speech.
And yet, even to begin forming the words
My eyes bleed tears in rivers
And my mouth twists in a coarse ribbon of rage.
As I begin to contemplate all
That I have already lost,
All that has been stolen from me,
And the futility that scoops out my heart
As though with a spoon,
The agony that despite my efforts
Naught will change.
Indeed, within myself,
I shall only feel the slighted by laying it all out.
How, pray, is this healing?
How will I arise in the morning feeling well
When I go to sleep with eyes red
And fists burned from beating them against the carpet?
How do I hope for release from this
When all previous attempts have resulted
Only in more, and newly earned, wounds.
Aye, I have no faith in change.
Not in him, and not in myself.
My pity for his weaknesses cannot survive
The listing of my woes.
It lives only with the time and distance afforded by strangers,
For strangers cannot hurt me so well.
And still, more must be said,
And nothing.
In time, and with distance,
Rage that burns like a sun
Turns from agony to beauty.
Still the rage burns,
But it is easier to choose to see just starlight,
Faint and sparkling,
And forget the furnace spawned by unmet need,
And quashed dreams.
It is the center of everything,
And nothing.
In my dreams, it has all been said before.

When Pandora opened her box
And let all the evils out into the world,
She closed the box in time
To save for humanity just one.
You will hear the weavers of tales
Tell you that this was a virtue she preserved,
But I am here to insist it was none.
Hope is the cruelest of the demons that plague us.
That tantalizing "maybe",
That eternal "what if?"
Maybe he feels for me.
What if he loved me?
And then when hope is broken,
The despair is like a physical pain.
Cut my heart out of my chest and put out my eyes,
For it could not hurt so much as this.
And the tears fall and I cannot imagine them ever stopping.
Plague and pestilence may take your life,
But the pain does not bleed from every pore,
And into your dreams at night.
So I must beg you, Pandora, please,
Open your box again.
Release me.

To be different is to be alone.
No truer words are there.
We both know this truth
Through the experience of it.
It doesn’t matter
If what separates us is for good or ill,
Only the difference of it matters.
The similarities pale in comparison.
We don’t need to be told,
But neither can we be protected.
The fact of the difference is
Never easily concealed.
And the concealing of it
Does as much harm,
For it only makes friends false.
It seems expedient perhaps
To obtain the illusion of friendship,
But rely not on their love or care,
For they will betray you
When finally your nature is revealed.
It is your choice then.
Betrayal or solitude.
Some choice.

I never wanted this;
I never asked for this,
But here I am.
I look back and wonder
Where could a choice have been made?
Where did I make the wrong turn?
When was the moment
When I lost what I longed for?
The childhood dreams,
The passion,
The purpose,
My reason for being.
But if truth be known
I don’t remember,
Because I was already lost
Long before the decision came.
I was already falling,
I just hadn’t felt the pain yet
Of hitting the bottom of my abyss,
And it was much longer still
Before the pain was bearable to feel
Through my numb mind
And numb heart.
Too late.
So like a phoenix, a fallen angel,
I rise only to fall again
And again
Until the trying itself becomes unbearable.
My rage sustains me
And kills me all the same from within.
Let go. Let go.
Embrace again your reasons for being;
Embrace again the love that fueled a different kind of passion,
And find a way back home.

I am surrounded by darkness,
But it is illusion.
Removing my sunglasses
Only blinds me with the glare.
Even the street lights are too much.
I put them back on;
They are only to hide me, I know.
To keep others from seeing in,
Seeing the tears that well up
Which I struggle to hold back.
I am cold,
But the coat I pull around my shoulders
Does not keep the chill out,
For it is from within.
I brace myself against it
But it cuts me like ice just the same.
I am alone.
I touch my lips
As if they could somehow manifest my dream,
But they feel coarse,
Like the soul that drives everyone away.
But I stand.
I do not crumble.
I will not allow it to be a weakness,
Instead, It will be a strength.
I can go on.
I can resist the cold.
I can see in the dark.
If need be I will make the entire journey this way.
But do not be afraid.
A companion would be welcome.

Silence the tongue;
Stop the heart,
Through violence if need be.
Not so much truth, please.
Trust is not given so lightly.
Your tongue deceives;
Your heart is not in it.
I give and you waver.
Stop this now.
You cannot give back what is given.
I cannot change you,
So I must learn to give less.
It hurts.
I feel colder
The more I wrap up inside myself,
But not as cold
As when my warmth drains from me
Like blood from a wound,
And is yet foresworn.
You were father and mother to me,
And yet, when most I needed you,
You heaped betrayal upon broken heart.
Perhaps I will never learn.
For how else may my heart be mended
If not through learning to trust,
To give again?

Look inward.
It's a dark path they say,
One that lead to narcissism,
Arrogance and selfishness.
But when one is already all these things,
How else does one escape it
But through cold self-evaluation?
And so I look inside
And try to understand.
The motives of the past are keys to present action.
Thus to change these actions,
How else to proceed but through their source.
Eventually, I myself
Will not be such a mystery,
Then the ability to look outward
Might just be possible.
Seen through eyes that can reflect
Internal understanding on the motives of others.
How else is empathy built?
The danger of looking inward then
Lies not in the looking
But in the lack of reflection,
And in allowing oneself to be lost in one's own desires.
They control you,
And you become their slave.

Friendship once honoured,
Becomes cherished
When it is suddenly no more.
One abruptly finds meaning in it
Never seen before,
As the numbers of them dwindle.
What was once a playmate,
Perhaps a confidant,
Becomes a cold necessity
When it stands between you
And the dark solitude.
So those that remain, you wish to keep
And thus upon them you heap
Your trust and feeling,
And expectation.
You give and give, and lose yourself
For the hope that it might be returned,
That at least they'll have reason to stay.
It is only loyalty you give
And loyalty you desire.
But few can pay you back
With the same coin you've purchased
Their friendship with;
And when finally this must become painfully clear,
The only result is betrayal.
It matters not, your intentions or theirs;
It is the only possible result
For disappointment.
And as much as you've given,
You'll want back in retribution for your pain.
Be it in blood,
For tears alone
Cannot sate your anguish.
But take care whose hide
The lash of your anger strikes,
For all too often
It will be your own blood that runs.

The voices in my head
Speak of questions, of doubt.
They speak of mistakes,
And, perhaps with time,
The seeds of wisdom.
But the voice beside me
Want to hear none of these things,
And seeks to drown them
In a different kind of platitude.
It speaks of the 'real' world.
It speaks of feeling and praise...
And blame.
But the voice blames me for nothing,
Rather it blames all who stand opposed to my will.
Forever uncritical of me,
Without moral judgment.
The voice is a comfort.
It claims to ask nothing of me in return,
And yet the less it asks
The more I give to it
Until I find my throat parched and grasping
For each morsel of self-worth it feeds me.
How did I come to be here?
How do I escape?
Do I even want to?
But my own wisdom fails me,
And the hole I have dug in my soul
Seems bottomless each time
I speak of duty and principle.
But today duty leads to confusion
And only you calm the chaos with an answer.
Be it right or wrong, I know not,
But no one else is speaking,
And my own voice has long since
Become a quiet whisper
In the black hole I call my soul.

I waited a long time for this,
An eternity it seemed.
Even a Jedi must weep
At the sacrifices I've made.
The dreams I've watched die.
Still, I cling tenaciously to this one.
I have the skill;
I always have,
But I wait impatiently for some acknowledgement,
For a moment to relax my vigilance,
A moment to enjoy rather than strive.
I face you now
In this moment of decision.
My hopes are high.
I've done everything you've asked of me,
And more.
But instead of a small moment of thanks
To honour my achievement,
I face the unforgiving "no"
You present me instead.
Now I am lost where before I was certain.
Why? What does this mean?
What possible reason could there be?
But if it is some personal flaw,
You will not tell me which.
Even so, how indeed does this affect
My ability to do what I must?
What I have been called to do?
And how do I hide from you
My shock and incredulity?
There is nothing to do but walk away,
Drowning in my confusion
Until someone can please force order
Onto the chaos in my soul.
For who am I
If not this?