Regrets

I regret it all. At least in my past, I had something pretty to write. Now I feed those close to me to an insatiable solitude. The result is not an act of love, or even of my own choice; it's just clearer to me now that I'll probably be alone forever, regardless of anything I think or do. In my past, when I called Obsession another name, at least I could feed verses to that solitude. Now, pretty words won't suffice. In the past few years, I've forgotten the reasons why I started writing poetry: it's a substitute for society. Sure, the words were "Love," "Red," "Blue," and "Christine," but the meanings were Solitude, Delusion, Deception, and Imagination. I lost those. Now, I'm left not with a delusion or elaborate psychosis to chronicle; my words were never as beautiful again. Perhaps the words I destroyed were the best; I often say they were my best, but truthfully, I've forgotten everything but the colors. I won't mention them; I'm trying to destroy them, too. I can't stand that beautiful lie any more. It's not like I ever touched Love anyway, at least as Solomon felt it. I also know I could still hold the original beauty in my words if I hadn't tried to join the rest of you. I had a taste of beauty and truth that mimicked John Keats. Now I can't forget or ignore that flavor of life, even if what I tasted was neither beauty nor truth, rather the sourest form of delusion and deception. The deception wasn't mine, but the delusions were.

Delusions continue to drive everything, even this. Every time I check the distance, my watery lair is deeper, and twice as lonely: silence confirms it. I've seen people adjust to society and float like a duck on the water. I am not a person; I am a monster from deep water, and that is where you'll find me. Floating is for the buoyant; my hope doesn't float, it sinks like a rock. Understand that my lair is not a fortress to keep you out; it's a prison to keep me in. I'll send a blog and an occasional poem to confirm my outside position, but circumstances stay the same. I'm left with Truth and the delusions to obscure it. Keats' urn was wrong for monsters, and always will be. Beauty is not Truth, nor Truth Beauty for my kin; Pain is Truth, and Truth Pain. When I'm wounded by truth, the deep tunnel to my Pain is opened through my heart. I can't fill it with poetry any more. I crumble under Colors, and struggle with Solomon to understand that I can't even fill it with bullets. There just aren't enough bullets.

I fear only that my solitude will follow me forever. Sleeping through the night in the arms of the Lord would be nice, but I don't wake up smiling, even if that's the way I start my slumber. I rise with punches at phantoms, and screaming protests denying my muteness. If I stayed with seven years of safety instead of risking six months on trying to be a person, I might hold on to beauty and a muse today. Unfortunately, I can't grip anything with my head in my hands trying to coax water from my eyes as a lubricant for my pain. My palms still grind my face.