Forbidden?

I go through these spurts of writing. 

I tell myself constantly to keep it up. Use this as therapy. It'll help you to deal with your thoughts when you are the most flustered and bothered. 

I always forget to write. 

Of, course, there are a lot of things to talk about now. Some of it is the same old shit that has yet to resolve itself. Some of it I feel like I can't talk about anywhere, or to anyone. I guess that'll never change. 

In a way I want to focus on that for a bit. 

Why should I feel so awful about this? Is it my fault? Can i help it that my mind drifts? It definitely hasn't been helping my anxiety at all. 

I guess I could technically talk about it, but how the hell does someone bring something like this up? It is not as though this is normal table conversation, or even anything that I would want to being up in the first place. 

I am just stuck, yet again, in a limbo that I can't seem to get out of. 

I need to get these things out of my head..

College Collection Cont. - Poems

I write poetry in the margins of

history text books

about

oppression

recession

and the Holocaust

The words squeeze their way

into the

tight

white

spaces

where the rest of the story

has yet

to be

told

So much space

and time

swirls

in the void between

"The End"

and

"."

-------

An Ode to Mali

definitely, beautiful

definitely, 

beautiful

...

definitely

...

beautiful

I will nevr mispel ether of thos too words agin

(I will never misspell either of those two words again)

-------

The Duality of Rorschach

We

fear   --   loathe

blackness   ---   whiteness

because

we

can't   ---   can

see

if   ---   that

anything   ---   nothing

is 

there.

College Thesis - Poem

I don’t know

I don’t know

I don’t know

I don’t know

I don’t know

I don’t know

shit

Sustenance - Poem

I watch you drum your fingers on the countertop

Making the beat of a hidden song

My ears strain to make out

You smell faintly of

Soap

Garlic

Both make you so concretely

That when I smell one

My mind drifts to the other

And across the ocean

To the mountains of Italy.

I continue to watch your fingers

Trace out and sculpt the blessing

That is to be our daily dinner

Which used to be my rice and beans

Now made of pastas

Breads

 Sauces.

I can’t help but think

We are the Story of New York City

The Real Lesson

I know that I don't have to be in the spotlight

I know that everyone has got their own thing going on

But sometimes, I feel like

I have let a lot of what I really wanted go

To make room for what is proper and right

But even then

Did I really want those things?

Was I breaking out against the faceless, blameless system?

Was I wanting it for the attention that it would bring me?

It did bring me some

Being the good one doesn't get you as much attention

You do good because you are expected to

It's like the story of the prodigal son

I should say the stories

Because there are easily two stories told within one about human nature and godliness

The ideal is the father. 

His son left

Squandered his money

Slept with whores

Wound up homeless

Destitute

And when he couldn't take it anymore

He came back home and into the open 

welcoming

Arms 

Of his father

He got the best of both worlds

He got to fuck a leper whore

Still have the love of his family

But what about the other brother

The one who did everything right

The one the story seems to leave behind

He obeyed his father always

He saved his money

He worked hard

But

When he comes home is welcomed home with huge open arms?

When he makes a misstep 

is it met with love?

Or disappointment

We expect the failure to fuck everything up

And praise overwhelmingly when he doesn't

But

We expect the prodigy to succeed

And when they don't

they only see punishment

So

What is the real lesson here?