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An external Locus of control (some profanity)

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  • An external Locus of control (some profanity)

    Wrote this a year ago, and it's interesting to me. Figured I'd share!

    Easy to blame other people
    And get caught in the pointed finger,
    While my emotions are the same
    And most of them we all will feel
    At some point. Easy to make
    Believe in a nebulosity-- so Fear
    Gets the logic-minded, and there is
    No where else to go,
    But confirmation bias.
    It's easy to lash out, and easy to hold back
    For a while. In the end,
    Restraint comes out of me like water:
    And I know that what's better
    And what's right are closer together;
    I know that repeating words as symbols
    Of a world I once could touch --
    I know the destroying touch of love,
    For another to have such power.
    Some hardened shell has made me
    Eat the hateful tastes and spit
    Vitriolic acids at the forms I might see
    Which we create an illusion
    Of exchange with our feelings.
    We built bombs that cornered love,
    We were destitute of spirit,
    And the arms we used to move
    The cities have all buried.
    The music I make is touching,
    And no light, no form, no stance
    Breaks that pitiful, petrifying gaze.
    Afraid to feel, I win, see, after
    Feeling afraid and knowing it is nothing:
    What's more, I win because
    I can be alone, and I am nothing more
    Than this. Your ridicule,
    It served you all well to weild,
    Appropriate lines of approach
    Engaging in each other--
    The burnt ends-- Satanic Deity.

    The fearful approach, is to alienate the shadow
    And pretend you can control
    That half of humanity which doesn't meld
    With what you are.
    I am fearful but what is beyond this fear?
    Are human beings separate because
    We are tasked to understand -- what isn't?

    Wouldn't it then be our job to see
    The way the Ruins never are rebuilt, sometimes.
    That the security of certitude
    Can be as enduring and suffocating, even
    As clothes we wear.

    I want to fast forward to when
    My bones are all that's left.

    I want you to drink your own poison-- Fear--
    And tell me what matters
    If i'm wrong and can't do anything about it?
    Well then, we both are.

    Just like people don't get off on hurting people's feelings.
    It shows you're apart of something,
    Because you're separate from that host.
    Fuck a compartmentalized personality unable to tell
    The truth for the fear of the fact that
    Such hell would rain, the living truth, that none
    Of the words should have ever been used.

  • #2
    There is so much deep and meticulous analysis in this soliloquy it amazes me that your poor head hasn't burst with the sheer abundance of insight. At every turn, the reader is faced with another crossroad of many forks. You maintain a sure cadence through it all, which steadies the reader, like a hand held, and keeps the attention with an understated music of devices.


    • amenOra
      amenOra commented
      Editing a comment
      Thanks for the comment Grant. This one's a bit more raw, but yep, those crossroads are what I found most interesting here. Poetry to me feels like a breaking through, and so it's beautiful to see the many ways and functions in which "that happens", where here I would say it's a bit more philosophical, and comes from things which have been hard to express, but the "breaking thru" and expression is what makes it poetry, which it's good to share and be received.
      Plus I'm in a totally different writing-space a year later, so that gives interest too. Peace!