1/30 (double post for today, due to mental illness episode.)
It t'was years ago,
When like a billow, my fury did wash over me, and start to grow.
When I saw her,
Turning my memory a blur,
And since then, my fury I have fostered.
Just when I tried to relinquish it, I appeared to have gone backward,
I looked inly, but found her to be a bawd and a knave,
And now hereat whenever I see her, I have to try to not rant and rave,
About my hatred for her, wishing her in the grave.
Whenever I see her face with mine eyne, or I harken somsone quoth
One of her lines, I silently remember my oath,
To smite that waste of space,
And now it is a race
Against time to get to ifsoever hither somewither
That she may in-sooth be, I whisper
To myself, to dish out her imminent, immedicable, danger,
Somewither she may be, a location, or a room.
Howbeit I hate her ilk, bawds, knaves, and the like,
And as I indite this "take a hike
From life" poem,
This hereunto, hereapon, skim
Her from the pool of life,
With disease of the brain,
This world's glory,
I must hie hence to her location and furbish my pen, end her story,
Stop her from spewing her word flux she should have saved for a lavatory!
Heretofore, I have been good,
But now, I'm not in the mood,
I have to be good,
Howbiet, murder being my demesne, within a twelvemonth,
I'll release the hatred I've been wont to every month,
I'll arrive upon a steed,
(And not to do a good deed)
And with the plan I did excogigate, I'll deal stripe after stripe,
Instead of just walking hither and thither, spewing tripe
And dreams, never to be acted upon,
But rather anon,
To end and degrade the name of that which is adenocarcinomatous,
As insignificant as a clew, or an animalcule,
Seeing her face, is cruel
And unusual punishment,
And every time I see her photo,
I am tortured, but must show a happiness pseudo,
Must not let anyone know,
The horrors locked within my heart,
That will soon part,
When I find and tear asunder that pseudo-human,
Nothing but common,
Just bane, and diseased vermin.
Just a mutated, bulbous, blob,
That I am going to rob
With which she should never have been rife.
I know why she never married, some reason others see her as a dame, and she erelong, would have too many cisisbeovs,
And they would not be improvs.
I know I may be just a dandiprat,
Not some fancy aristocrat,
But I will make a name for myself,
When on my deathbed, I tell that it was myself
Who made the famous work of surrealism
Showing the nihilism
Betwixt expiry and life.
For I would rather have scurvy than see her face living again,
That is the plan....
What are you looking at?
Oh, don't worry about the tapster, he "didn't" hear that.....
I've been wondering,
Do leprechauns have leprosy?
What if there never was tea or coffee?
What if there had never been scurvy?
Is Minecraft anti-communist?
What would have happened if Brad Dourif, instead of actor, pursued the carrer of florist?
Do fish itch?
What if they really sold the TF2 Sandvich?
Why are there so many songs about singing songs and/or identifying with a song, instead of having a message?
Why do so many people rush into marriage?
Do androids dream of electric sheep?
Why do I have such specific and unusual dreams, when I sleep?
Why do I like images, songs, art, and games so dark, morbid, shocking, and gruesome, when in real life, I don't really?
Why do I prefer older individuals, and find men sometimes under forty, but usually under fifty, and those on magazine covers, ugly?
How can I write about murder,
When in reality, I've never wanted to commit a murder?
Why do so many people use the back door
When excretion of excrement is all it should be used for?
Learning about life, and the world around me,
Learning about me.
Why this? Why that?
How does this happen? Why does this, do that?
Who? When? Why? Where? How? What?
I may be soft, and feminine,
But in reality, that is my masculine,
Like a lioness,
Feminine exterior, but tough, and full of masculine prowess.
All I ask is for my male pronouns to be used, and nothing less,
For if you cared enough to read about me and inspect
My description, it says right near the top,
My gender and pronouns, not a big deal if you forget the first few times, but quite a flop,
If I've been writing about this,
Telling you about this,
And it never sunk in, or you chose not to use them,
And never read my profile to confirm them.
I'm trying to stay healthy and physically active (not just mentally), and sane during all this family tension,
Trying to keep this place in a peaceful unison.
Trying to decide if I want to continue to call my mother's husband, "step-dad" to make it easier for others,
Or go back to calling him what he is, "my mother's husband", and not causing any false beliefs for others,
Thinking that we have a close relationship,
When in fact, it has sailed, that ship.
I tried, he didn't want to communicate,
And then when it was too late,
He briefly tried to connect,
But I couldn't, I had already from the situation, disconnect.
Trying to figure out, if the way I believe is purely me
And would have eventually come to me,
Or if some of my thoughts and ideas, I never would have had if others hadn't influenced me
(Nothing wrong with either)
Trying to figure out how best to come out to my father
And tell him my who I am is still the same, no matter my gender,
Or any other labels I may have.
Trying to figure out the meaning of the universe,
What lives out there, dangerous,
What lives deep within the ocean,
And learning languages, foreign.
Spiraling into myself, like a fractal,
Like a fibonacci spiral.