A Fish in the Sea

fish1

How can I make it happen
If I don’t know what I need
If this planet was an ocean
I’d probably be a seaweed

I ran away from a 17-year relationship
As big and as beautiful as the Titanic
But we hit something as cold as the Arctic
And my world went down like a sinking ship

Now I’m broken and lonely
I can’t swallow my spaghetti

I sit in my apartment like an old jerk
Feeling as worthless as an office clerk
Wishing I could connect with someone new
A man, a woman, maybe even you

I feel ugly, I feel sad
My mind is empty and mad

I’m wondering about this dating site
Maybe this is how I can take flight
But what would I write in my profile
“I’m no pervert and no pedophile”

I want to turn around
Bury myself underground

I want to project something real
Find someone who will help me heal
But who wants to date a damaged man
All I need is a patient helping hand

Fuck I don’t even know what I want
I feel more lost than a teenage debutante

There’s a site called Plenty of Fish
Perhaps it can fulfill my wish
Might not be as hot as Florida
But it’s free and popular in Canada

 

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Sad and Happy

happy and sad

Sad is single
Happy is double

Sad is lonely
Happy accompany

Sad is bad
Happy is glad

Sad is worry
Happy is easy

Sad can’t sleep
Happy rests deep

Sad has pill
Happy has will

Sad is stranded
Happy emancipated

Sad looks down
Happy looks around

Sad is short-sighted
Happy is excited

Sad is flabby
Happy is horny

Sad is gray
Happy is gay

“Nobody Loves Me”

Angel Guardian

– It’s not a fact, it’s a belief.

What did you say?

– This phrase that you repeat in your mind, it’s not a fact, it’s a belief.

Well, I don’t feel loved.

– A feeling is not a fact either.

So why do I have this feeling?

– The feeling comes from the belief.

And where does this belief come from?

– You fabricate your beliefs.

Based on what?

– Based on your interpretations.

If someone punches me in the face, how am I supposed to interpret it?

– How many times have someone punched you in the face, Daemon?

Never.

– Give me a concrete example.  At this moment, is someone doing something to harm you?

Right now? . . .  Everyone is ignoring me.

– How do you know that?

I’m not getting any calls.  I’m not receiving any messages.

– Maybe they are sleeping.  Maybe they are busy, trying to survive.  Maybe they are dreaming of you right now.  You don’t know.

You’re right.  I don’t know.

– You base your feelings on your interpretation of non-occurring events.  Then you choose to believe that your feelings are telling you the truth about the situation.  Then you feel even worse.  You keep doing this and become trapped in this depressing cycle.  Stop it, idiot!

Hey, you just called me an idiot!  You’re hurting my feelings!

– I said that because I love you.  See, you can take any insult and turn it into something positive.  You can change your interpretations and metamorphose your beliefs.

I don’t believe you.

– Liar.  You do.

Come here.  Give me a hug.

Watching Obsessively

Gud03

Thanks for watching me, outsider.
Some people freak out
at the thought of being watched
but not me.
On the contrary.
Knowing that you keep an eye on me
night and day excites me.

You know how lonely I feel down here.
No one seems to care.
Sorry, I shouldn’t say that.
Of course, many of them care,
but they can’t do anything for me.
I wouldn’t want them to sit and watch me anyway,
that would be creepy.

But for some reason I don’t mind if you do.
Probably because I know you.
Do you have a life apart from me?
No, I hear.
Your love keeps you bonded like a prisoner,
just like the body does for me.

Like a chicken that sits on her eggs,
you brood over me.
Your need to protect is obsessive.
Your one-track mind is unwavering.
You stalk all day, dreaming.
Like me, wondering…
When will he be ready?

You know I wish to break out of this hell
and throw myself under your spell,
but something is preventing me.
A voice tells me to be patient.
As I harden and grow,
the cage will crack open eventually.

In the meantime I try not to go crazy.
I often feel like I’m going to falter
and forget everything you told me.
It’s tempting to think
that life within this enclosure
is the only one for me.
But I remember
the infatuation
the impressions
and the letter.

When Love Lies

Man Crying

My last true love almost obliterated me.

“True” love?
It could not have been true if it almost obliterated you.

Right. But I was convinced that it was true love. I married this love. I gave my life to this love. I gave my time, my efforts, my money, my body and my soul to this love. I gave my everything to this love. I never doubted that this love was not my true love. The result was near-annihilation.

You survived.

Thanks to you.

No, thanks to you!

I was near-dead, there was nothing I could do.

That is not exactly true.

What did I do?

You turned to you.

What do mean you?

Instead of turning to self-destruction, you turned to self-love.

Hmm…

Not everyone accepts self-love.

It took me many years though. Many years of agony. And even with this “self-love,” I am still hurt. I’m damaged. I’m unrecognizable. I’m socially extinguished. I’m dysfunctional. I’m disabled. I’m handicapped. I’m useless. I’m no good. I’m incapable of loving another human being again.

It’s perhaps not as bad as it seems.

Has this “self-love” made me a more loving person? Look at me now. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t trust humans. I almost hate them. And when I look into the mirror, I see one again. I almost hate myself. This self-love is a paradox. It doesn’t seem real. Sure, I did not kill myself, but there must be more to self-love than subsisting… and waiting… to die, so I can be with you.

You’re writing aren’t you?

All the time.

Then you’re doing something valuable. Everything you write is being recorded. You have no idea the impact that you are having on the universe.

Indeed, I have no idea. Thanks. Your words are encouraging. As always.

Spontaneity

jackhaas18a

Writing without an agenda.
This is an experiment
With spontaneity.

I chose a picture that I like
Because it’s beautiful
Created by Jack Haas

Is this a poem?
I don’t know.
There are no rhymes.
Or maybe some will pop up.
Spontaneously.

Writing is how my soul breathes.
When I stop, I suffocate.
Sorry if it annoys you.
I’m simply keeping myself alive here.

I can’t go for a walk, it’s raining.
Well I could still go but
I usually do it after lunch.
In the morning I write.

There is too much I could write about.
Sometimes it’s just frustrating to have to choose.
So I said to myself:  “Why choose?”
Why not be spontaneous.

Spontaneity is scary.
What is the next line going to be?
What if something ugly jumps out suddenly?

Heh! heh! heh!  It is a mystery.
Flirting with the unknown.
It’s involuntary.

I might lose control.
Should I look behind?
What if I lose my mind?

Who will take over
If I let go of my own senses?
Chaos, Cosmos or Cyclops?

Is it even possible to go astray
There must be beauty
Even in spontaneity

Should I stop here?
Or should I continue…

Too much of it might get boring.
Yeah, breathing does get boring.
But I have to keep going.

If I hold my breath
My face will turn blue.
I would not want that.
My blue hand is causing me enough trouble.
Do I want a blue face to match it?

I know what I’ll do.
There is a word count
At the bottom right.
It’s at two sixty eight.
When it gets to 1000
I will stop
No matter what.
Even if I’m not finished.
Now THAT is scary.

It’s like approaching death.
The death of this blogpost.
The end of it.

I still have six hundred something words to go.
What will these words be?
Maybe I should write something important.
Which reminds me…

My father used to say:
“Shut up if you have nothing important to say.”
Daddy must be very disappointed in me right now.
Sorry dad, but you are dead now, so I am free.

Can the zombie hear me?
Is it disrespectful to refer to my dead father as a zombie?
Will God punish me?
I just broke commandment number three.
No sorry it’s number five.
I just checked.

I don’t think I’ll make it to 1000 words.
At the word “word” it was only 400.
It’s never too late to say something important.
To make my father proud of his illegitimate son.

Now why did I write the word “illegitimate?”
This was really spontaneous.
What does it actually mean?

Illegal?  Against the law?
Born of unmarried parents?
But my parents were married when they had me.

Illegitimate also means illogical or incorrectly deduced.
Maybe I am not my biological father’s son.
When I was young I sometimes felt like I was adopted.
Because he didn’t like me much.

But I look so much like him.
I’m sure he’s my real father.
Even my personality matches his almost perfectly.

So that’s not it, I am his biological son.
Why did I write illegitimate then?

The word also means “not genuine.”
So does that mean that my father is not my genuine father?
What does genuine mean?
Thank God I have a dictionary.

What did I just say, again, spontaneously?
Thank “GOD” I have a dictionary?
God?  Who’s God?

My genuine father perhaps?
Of course, God the Father.
But who would that god be?

Yahweh?  Don’t tell me!
Not that blood thirsty
Son of a b****
The ultimate source of love.
He!  He!  He!

Allah?  I think he’s the same as Yahweh.
Bhagavan Krishna?  Yeah, perhaps…
Since his son Krishna is sometimes painted blue
I foresee a definite possibility.

I already wrote a blogpost entitled “A Real Father”
So why am I still writing about this.
Do I miss my daddy?

How can I miss an unknown person?
Well…  I think that if one wants to know the father
All one has to do is look at the son.

The son would be me.
So the father would be just like me.
This means I have a pretty cool daddy.
LOL!

In a sense I am my own father.
I am my own creator.
I am my own guide.
I am my own authority.
And I am my own god.

This is spitting in the face of Christianity.
My mother would not be proud of me.
Some of my sisters would spit back at me.
In fact they already have.

One told me that I had been seduced by an evil spirit.
Another said that my ideas were satanic.
The third one agreed with the first one.
The fourth one is not sure.
The fifth one is not bothered by the rest and accepts me.
Yes, I have five sisters.

So where am I going with this?
Nowhere.  I’m being spontaneous.
I have just revisited my family.
I visit them virtually and rarely physically.

I am a lonely bastard.
And I think that this is the way I like it.
I enjoy my own company.
I think I am funny.
I don’t need my brother to make me laugh.
Yes, I also have a brother.
He’s a clown.

Why did I use the word “clown” to describe my brother?
Let’s look it up.  A clown can be:
1-  a performance artist often associated with a circus
2- a person who acts in a silly fashion
3- a stupid person
4- a man of coarse nature and manners; an awkward fellow
5- one who works upon the soil; a rustic; a churl.

Yup, that pretty much describes my biological brother.
Not to be confused with my cosmic brother Jahele.
Two very different individuals.

So I had to conclude at one point that I had two separate families.
One down here and another up there, in the clouds or above them.
I’m related to one by blood and to the other one by spirit.

One thousand words.