I haven’t the words
Nor strength to stand
Any more
Of this illusion
Sealed in spit
And sketched by hand
Our world is done
What courage has man?
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I haven’t the words
Nor strength to stand
Any more
Of this illusion
Sealed in spit
And sketched by hand
Our world is done
What courage has man?
If I could go back, all those years, and stand next to twelve year old me, would I have the courage and strength to tell that nervous boy watching all the other children, swimming, laughing, and running—playing shirts v.s. skins—to quit worrying and join in, that it doesn’t matter how chubby you feel, or how different you look, that as long as you love and accept yourself, no words from another can harm you, or would I just sit back and watch, still the observer unable to join the party?
It’s funny how something so simple as taking your shirt off to swim can be so detrimental to a young child’s self esteem and yet as adults we often forget what that was like or rather what external forces beyond our control led us to believe ourselves unworthy of such a simple, yet harrowing task.
As in childhood, so as in adulthood, what we allow to harm us will.
Commercials show us long, slender, sleek models who seem to effortlessly fit in to their surroundings while being rewarded with warm smiles and admiration for seeming perfect.
Television shows and movies give us well manicured, quintessential versions of ourselves that often seem more like science fiction than what actually is.
Billboard ads and magazines are placed conveniently to fill all our psyche with blemish-less detail to promote this false sense of unattainable beauty that even when met, there’s ultimately an even whiter teeth formula, or wax to whisk away our imperfection.
It’s a cycle that even before the mind has time to develop, stunts it’s growth and like a cavity begins to decay all sense of self worth.
How often have you judged yourself by your looks rather than how you feel?
For this average white guy, countless.
But it’s taken all those countless times to figure out that it doesn’t matter in the slightest, especially as a child who’s developing.
So would I tell that twelve year old me to take his shirt off and go swimming with the rest of the lot?
I don’t think there is a clear answer other than that instead of telling him what he should or shouldn’t do like all the rest of the world, I’d allow him the opportunity to listen to my story and decide for himself.
But I would say this. Chances are that boy or girl over there thinks there nose is too big or there ears are too small. Chances are that kid who cringes to put on his glasses everyday feels just like you do now, wondering what others will think of what makes him human.
Perhaps I’d reassure him that everybody has stretch marks, even the biggest, strongest athletes. Even his mother, and what could be more beautiful than sacrificing your physical form to grant another life?
But we all figure it out in our own time.
I know he did.
Like a knife
slides
warm through butter
so gently does her hand
into mine
telling me all
I need to know
about her character
and it takes all my courage
not to melt
with the toast
she proceeds to deliver
glasses raised
and CHEERS
go our spirits
together
down the hatch
spread eagle
she’s tolerant
thin
and warm
irresistibly open
like a wound
gapes
breathing in
and out
then in then out
we go
through the empty streets
at dawn
searching, always searching
for the next.
It takes more courage
to know your worth
and walk away
than to stay, resentful
knowing that your worth
is being measured in peanuts
Everything, I wanted to do,
slowly drifts away.
Clicking here, now clicking there,
it all just looks the same.
An endless maze, of travesty,
piles on each page.
But I don’t have, the guts or tact
or sincerity to look away.
And each time that, I tell myself
tomorrow’s another day.
The calendar, it flips and turns,
yet I just stay the same.
Consciously, predicting that
in sunlight I will change.
Then by the moon, retracting that
I’m drunk in cyberspace.
If nothing really mattered
then I guess
nothing really matters
and so if nothing really matters…
Then why the hell do I keep on trying to explain?
Why the hell do I keep on
this way?
They tell me thanks, rinse and repeat
all I can do is laugh.
There was a time, when I was sure
there seemed, some way back.
A charlatan, a debutante,
perfection on a screen.
Deeper in, still deeper now
a web of misery.
And by the time, I’ve had my fill
and walking on a cloud.
The city lights, extinguished by
eyelids that do bow.
It’s not a curse or act of God,
that craves some kind of change.
But the terror dreams of darkness,
while drunk in cyberspace.
The cure, the cure is quite simple
the cure, the cure is quite simple
the cure, the cure is quite simple…
But.