A long Haiku about moving on and by Haiku this is a stretch

The moleskin with the blue cover is lost; Relief is knowing that I don’t have to look at its contents anymore:

Mania gripped me

spun me

and as I grasped your hand

you didn’t care.

I dance again now and joke about the suffering I experienced, not out of anger but out of acknowledging that life is not static but rather a wavelength of dreams. I survived the nightmare world that surrounded me and now I’m searching not just for someone who is interesting or cute or funny but for the real thing. The real thing is not to be found but rather will occur so I am focusing on finding me. The last 6 years have been chaotic and that’s an understatement. I dated a myriad of people and don’t really know how or why. I’m tired of being an object or of using people as objects. I’ve been a really fragmented person and I have broken myself too many times. In the way my rapist held me at the beach only to walk me to my end, my eyes were closed as he entered in and out of me. I had so much anger I never expressed and I directed all that energy in frustration to the boy who often emotionally neglected me. There’s a connection to this romantic tragedy. I keep escaping one tragedy by clinging to people who can’t see me or who see me and run. Run girl run. I’m taking a seat and seeing life not for anyone to like me but for me. I spent too much of my energy becoming a concept for someone but then my little wall would crack and people abandoned me for another concept or else I abandoned them for some concept. I have been really hurt and likewise I have really hurt people. I’m not going to be responsible for all these bad feelings anymore. I’m abandoning this endless pursuit in the name of real love. Love is not made but found and you find it by being truly yourself.


The Truth morality as written from a white chair


As inspired by both flushing my hair down the toilet and this David Foster Wallace quote:

(The interesting thing is why we’re so desperate for this anesthetic against loneliness.)

The reality is that I wrote the poem first and found this quote afterwards;

some simple honesty relaying that I did not find hope in this seemingly distant case of mutual suffering.


You drop the hair into the spinning resin

Watching the slush of water

spin itself away,

Taking away layers of damage,

you hope at least, that the spin

is a delta adding the change from rise to run,

changing your interactions with the world.

When will your slope recline?

No longer do you hear or feel helping hands

instead there is frustration as you attempt to put out the fire

the fire that constantly haunts you,

the fire that drove you to hospitals, to hands, and

eventually confirmed your greatest fear:

if you push enough the lingering hope turns away;

so you are awake writing something-which can’t even call itself a poem

and scream casually into the void.

But still on your head the hair sits

so you await the moment when it will all end;

There must be some connection between hair and suffering

you always tried to align both metaphysically,

The only real metaphysical truth is that beyond society

we are alone,

figments of some imagination

always falling short.

Sung: so hush little baby, don’t you cry

Fragmentation: my trauma

The fragments pull,

what fragments and how exactly can objects, or ideas, or parts pull and in what direction?

I suppose the fragment of forgetting,

the fragment left behind by compartmentalized pain,

What exactly do we mean when we say trauma?

It all goes back to the concepts of consciousness and memory,

but we discussed that memory is often reinvented, remade

the balloon suddenly appears and it is red

never-mind that you never consciously perceived it,

but it is there,

an explanation to the fuzzy image that distracted you and made you vulnerable.

Perhaps the falsification of memory allows us to exist beyond violation.

We not only invent after the fact but interpret memory in whatever way

allows us to exist, allows us to not jump when the subway zooms by,

so when I woke up with no memory,

I remembered the question, that I would have theoretically posed:

I never expressed my consent, except in remorse,

in the crawl on the floor, in the rising anxiety, in de-realization,

in letting you touch me again,

until I couldn’t anymore.