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Poetry I love myself

Snafu in the Void

Moderator: NMI Bukowski Jr.
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May 27, 2020
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there are many loser junkies like me
with one or two or three vices,
coveting a tiny black box with trembling hands,
which was desperately scribbled over ten thousand times,
with nothing left inside

I spend my nights pacing around the house,
always opening the refrigerator and looking in,
or under the sink or in my closet,
forever searching...

I expect to find the part of myself which I still somehow love,
but that slippery son of a bitch is scared of me
and I only find the worst of myself

"Hey buddy, hungover again? Do you know what you did last night? You cried in jail like a little bitch. Everyone hates you. You're lazy and will never find love. You stole everything from your mother. You've hurt everyone who has ever known you. Literally everything you touch turns to shit like some silly fairy tale. You aren't turning into your father, you are already him. You're a fucking criminal felon, can't even vote. Your brain has turned to warm mush. The best part of your life is already over."

"Look man--" I retorted

"You don't even know how to change the oil in your car. Nobody ever taught you how to tie a tie, you're a clip on fraud. You stare at people in the eye and spit your dutiful lies. You've never created anything beautiful in life. You never even graduated high school let alone college. You'll never own a house. You're going to be a fuck up addict for the rest of your life, there is no hope left for you loser."

"Look... I was just leaving" I said, "and trust me I will leave, before you start talking about suicide again."

other than Him,
all I ever find in the refrigerator is dusty mold
and under the sink some toxic chemicals next to dirty dry rags
and in the closet more clothes hangers than clothes
something only he ever knows

It's not until I open the family photo album
and I look at pictures of me, us, when we were tragically young,
not perfect,
but good enough like a shopping cart without bent wheels
that then the self doubt leaves
and the pages turn
and there is one child in a red outfit,
and there's the other, me, chasing a black bird,
swimming further out into a calm blue sea

My life has become quite sad yet seemingly less dangerous,
and therefor, good enough?
Yet the only thing I desperately wish for
is to be able to drink coffee and talk to myself in the morning
without wanting to die, without him jumping out,
but with a smile,
is that too much to ask?
I left the house to complete my task
 
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This is beautifully written.

I know you likely meant it in a physical sense of creation. Though cliché as it sounds, this is certainly art in its purest sense and especially meaningful for those experiencing forlornness that might be made to feel less alone by reading your words.
 
...and snafu says, "Ha ha, I touched your heart" in his best Nelson Muntz voice.
 
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