Image for the poem Internal~External Babble

Internal~External Babble

There is a unique happening when you believe your in a fight for your life.  It's a tug of war between what your soul purpose is for this life and whether or not you'll succeed.  
So many voices in my head telling me what to do and how and faces of friends and family doing the same.  I just want it all to shut the fuck up.  Just let me be or let me die.  I'm not sure of which makes much difference anymore.  
When is the fighting done?  Constantly moving over obstacles thinking there will be a huge
payoff and then challenge staring you in the face.  Angels and Demons make me feel spiritually bipolar and I'm afraid I've stopped listening.  To bad for them and so sad for me.
Today two years ago I lost my sister to cancer.  She had a fairy like energy and was here to simply love...that was it.  Yet she was so abused by those who couldn't see her in that simplistic beauty.  I miss her.. I feel her with me...but there is an ache you know.
She encouraged me to write and loved everything I did and her support is what made me.
Now I write and wonder why.  Who the fuck cares about any of our shit?  Half the people on here are fake, and multi personnas to hide their truth and I too have done the same being Lily Mae.  I had to create her to hide from a stalker many years ago on Hello Poetry.  Now it all feels like bullshit and babble.  Yes we all suffer and the loss is the cross bones of our existence.  How many of us love ourselves as is?  I know I don't.  I'm not the perfect bodied primadonna.  No one "wants" me on the outside but if my insides had a sexual shape I'd be fucking wanted 24/7.   So just let me be your friend and fill your fantasies and make you feel good while I have no one making me feel anything.  You know...I try to tell people that when you get that plant that caught your eye you do need to water it...
Maybe all this is just a melancholy blue until I get settled into a new home or fight to save the family home.. Even though my fight feels lost.  
I once told my friend Strider on here before he vanished that all poets are broken.  We all have been that vessel born pristine and then throughout life we fall and become chipped, broken..and then glued or discarded.
That's why we are the glue to the world.  Our love or want of it, our pain and lack of emotion to it anymore, our lust to feed a desire we've never known...we poets rock this world.  Because right now, it's our words good, bad or ugly that are keeping it real.  All the world leaders speak and choke from the place of a verbal armageddon.  Fuck their flaming words and lies.
I'd rather crash and burn in my own way then by the hands the disappointing hollow chocolate Easter Bunny that we thought was solid and bought with high hopes.
None of this makes sense and it contradicts itself in many places and yet that's my point.  Nothing makes sense anymore.  Not even this.
Written by Tracey_Leigh
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