I have seen all kinds or people in all kinds of ways, both sick and deceived and lost, searching, waiting, and hoping that somehow the answers to their questions will either come to light or be left elsewhere and unobjectionable.
I have watched good people undergo changes and become so unrecognizable in either a more spiritual or physical sense and in the end, they died as someone else to me.
I spent too much time searching for a cure. And no.
I am not alone.
I spent what seems to be lifetimes, which have both multiplied and divided the same way terrorists divide and conquer and yes.
Yes, of course.
I have been looking for an answer to understand a slow and steady emptiness.
I have been looking to understand the inferior excuses that changes the dynamic for an otherwise divided mind.
Why?
People remember pain over pleasure.
Why?
We recall tragedies before moments of greatness.
But why?
We remember the disposableness we felt when being discarded or rejected.
And we store this with our insecure arrows that shoot down our dreams and keep them flying high or taking off.
We recall the quiet detonations that caused us to explode in secrecy and in plain sight.
We remember the damages that deranged our better thinking and turned us into something altered or distorted.
Nice guys finish last, they say.
Don’t trust anyone, is what I was told.
Keep it to yourself
Bury that shit deep.
Never let anyone see the cracks and the flaws of your fragile truths.
Or like The Good Book says:
Do not cast your pearls before swine or share what is sacred unto dogs for they will trample them under their feet and use this against you to tear you apart!
Never show your weakness.
Never do this and if you do, pretend that you have strengths that are unseen and undetectable and sharper than any scalpel because you will use this to their their meat from their flesh, if needed.
Wear a mask that hides your fears.
Use your shield, and when in doubt, plunge your daggers deep to meat of those you oppose.
Keep your weaknesses from being exposed because while dead men don’t tell tales, no one wants to mess with the crazy one. No one wants the problems or the drama or the fear of incredible revenge.
No one wants their time to be cut short or to be extinguished in the most gruesome way possible.
No one wants this.
No one.
People pose and they posture and they pretend and the growl.
However, people love to tease the beast who has been kept on a leash or bordered by a fence
People swear they are touch. And they bark.
But no.
The dangerous ones move like quiet storms.
The deadly ones move around, undetected, because they want their wrath to be undetectable; and so . . .
when they bite and when the element of surprise deceives the enemy; anyone who wants to tangle with my future might think twice before exercising their tricks to pull a fast one or enter my dungeon and be unafraid.
We remember the betrayals before the honesties.
We remember the pains and the humiliation.
We remember the rotting poison that lives like mental and emotional termites and leaves behind their scars and their torturous little boroughs that devour our life and our sanity, or both – so help me God.
A man was executed the other night.
Killed.
Murdered.
He was finished and extinguished with the a specific intent.
I wonder how his soul managed to pass from this life to the next.
Or did it?
Or is the afterlife as he feared?
I wonder if all he found was blackness, otherwise known as the nothingness of death, and if so; I wonder what his last thought was before the first bullet hit the back of his head?
I am not this kind of person or violent and nor am I someone to claim an understanding of “that life,” which killed a man because of course, this is part of the game in that life.
I have seen good people lose to bad things.
I have watched poison change the minds of goodhearted friends and I watched as their heart became hard and then distant, only to push them farther and further away from themselves until finally, all that remained of them was deadly and nonexistent.
I remember . . .
I was sitting in a room, confessing about a grownup’s touch that should have never happened.
I confessed this to a man who had a similar path. He was strong. And I admired him.
He had a tattoo that read, “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”
His revenge came to home at a young age.
He sought through pain and personal persecution to improve his conscious contact with the rage that only he could understand
Ah, and so The Good Book says, “behold, I send you out as sheep amongst wolves.” and indeed; I have seen wolves in sheep’s clothing.
I have listened to their grooming tactics and saw them groom with techniques that led them to slither in and be the serpents.
Somehow, the world is unjust and unclean and I?
I am not so godly or saintly and so, I have thoughts and ideas; violent as ever and deranged, disgusting.
Yes. I do
I million times
Yes
Above all else, I have thoughts and the previous ability from a different life to avenge myself and at my worst, if you know; then you would find me and my ideas about justice disturbing.
I reject this idea now.
I reject the mottoes of vengeance and violence and so, I would rather be cold than seek warmth by the fires of my hatred.
I could fire a thousand bullets into the body of those who hurt me and yes, although dead; their memory would remain and this above all is their sin –
not just the sin of touch
no . . .
this is the sin which comes with a dirty touch that stains the soul and teaches lies about the way people who love you are supposed to treat you.
Dear God,
I lay down my weapons at your feet.
Protect me from my enemies, of course
But Lord, please guide me
and save me from my supposed and so-called friends.
I ask this of you because I have seen more die by the sword than survive by it.
And I have watched a generation, become armed and still they are anxious and scared, and I have seen good strong men pretend to be unafraid.
Everyone is a “tough guy” until it is time and it is they who face the hour of their death (amen)
I see no use in disturbing words or the talks of retribution and bloodshed.
I need to let the savage one die and allow the aggression to dissipate.
I have to let the aftermath fade like the smoke after the emotions of a terrible explosion.
I will have to face you, one day, my God
And I know who I am and I know what I have done.
I remember well
I firebombed a car in my younger, previous life.
I wanted more.
I wanted this person to understand.
I wanted him to fear me.
I wanted to stain his mental heart and make him know that in the end, I stood over him and let him live.
I wanted him to realize and so, I made sure he understood my intentions were as true as the message that was sent, which was this:
“the only reason why you are alive is because I decided to let you live. . . so, now I can torture you for as long as I want.”
I wore pale armor and false bravado like a million dollar suit, which was sold as an outfit so that I could stand as an imposter and pretend to be tough.
I saw guns
I saw life go away.
I saw a man take a shot to the shoulder and I watched him run for his life, and yet, though he wanted to live, he lived a life that caused him to die.
How crazy?
Ah the dichotomy of insanity is far more noteworthy and interesting than a quiet morning by a willow tree.
Chaos is more notable than peace these days.,
And trust me when I tell you . . .
I like peace but I wouldn’t know what to do with it
I like willows.
I like quiet streams.
But I know more about other things.
I have seen different places with mirrors on the ceilings to view the sins below them.
I have seen dens of iniquity.
I have seen injustice.
I have seen evil men and I have watched people dispatch others and not even burp like they would after eating a snack or a meal.
I watch people persecute and execute and fire away with their social and professional character assassinations.
I watch and I listen to the hatred spew between the left side and the right side of our governmental ideas.
And of course . . .
I have seen how congress and politics and the politicians have become the new gods because politics is the new religion.
And so, if you choose any other God, except for mine; then thus, you are an enemy of my God and so, this would make you an enemy of mine.
This means you have to die in one way
or another.
This is today’s politics.
People root and cheer for social assassinations and while the brutality is gross and should this sort of thing be put upon someone in front of them; there is no love for life because I have watched the way we have become desensitized to lifeless living and therefore, death means nothing because death has been commercialized to keep us from questioning “Why?”.
I wonder though.
What kind of commercial does a little nine-year-old girl see after she never had the chance to say goodbye to the one and only father that she will ever have?
I have watched too many people go and somehow, I have seen the worst survive and the best go first.
I was told it is not supposed to be this way
I am told the last shall be first and the first shall be last.
And?
So?
I am not first or last.
I am not good
I am not bad or evil.
I am only aware.
I wonder how aware people are before they die
To my friend,
I don’t know what your last thoughts were or where you will be from now on, but the rest of you is the best of you to me and so . . .
as long as I live and breathe, so will you
With me
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
“Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord.”
I know this, dear Father
But sometimes,
the devil in me gets the best in me
hence, this is why I got rid of my weapons of mass consumption.
The Written Addiction 