Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nicole Dec 2018
Dear Bri,

I've put this letter off the longest
Because it doesn't come from anger
And although it may resemble it
It does not come from regret either
This letter just comes from my soul
From me
From a place I can finally trust

This letter differs from the rest
Because I want it to be a mix
Between explanation and closure
And the others I didn't want them to read
But part of me hopes you do see this
I just finally think I understand
Why I had to leave

First of all
I never used you
Not one time
You learned that I'm fiercely independent
And I hope you know it was never
Ever
Ever
About money for me
Or about your home town
Or your fathers property
No that relationship was about love
I loved you

See, the thing about love
The thing I didn't know about
Was that it changes over time
There are not always sparks
Even so, those fade eventually
And from there you must create deeper ties
Connect to one another on a new level
That is the point at which I failed

I know you hated how
I always explained my behavior by my past
And for that I am not sorry
What I am sorry for is the fact that
I did not step up
I did not know how to grow with life
How to let go of the pain
How to move forward
Instead I hid the pain behind drugs
Legal and prescribed
And behind other people's affection
I pushed away the pain
Because it hurt way too much
I was not ready to face it
I had no idea how to do that
And by not accepting my real feelings
I not only blunted the unhelpful ones
But the pleasant ones as well

By not dealing with my past
By not allowing myself to heal
I could not have allowed myself
To love you

It's been over a week since
I wrote the first half of this
It's hard to find the right words
It's hard to open my heart
On something so sensitive
As a love that I ended prematurely
I want to let you go though
We both deserve to be happy again
And I am, most days
But I need to acknowledge my heart
Allow myself to be sad one last time
I want to be entirely honest with you

You've been the hardest person
For me to let go of recently
Now that you live in town again
I think about you a lot
When I'm driving through campus
Past the engineering building
When I'm walking back to my car
Memories constantly surface of us
Like when you left that phone number
On the windshield of my car
And it was to some Pizza Hut in DC
Or driving through the town where we lived
Surrounded by white snow
Singing different parts to Pentatonix
Or when we spent Christmas with your family
And we connected through the calm of a place
So far from the city
As we chopped down a tree and
Played video games under warm blankets
Or even when we sat on the edge of a cliff in St. Francis
And I told you I felt nothing when we kissed
So so many memories
Of love
Of pain
Of a connection
Of my best friend

And it's not that I want to be together again
We are very different people and
I really am happy again
And I don't want to make you sad
Or make you feel anything bad
Because no matter what I care about you
I just need to reprocess everything
With the recognition that
That relationship would have lasted
If, back then,
I were the person I am now

See,
We may have been entirely different
And we definitely had our issues
But you were right when you said
That I couldn't commit
Because I couldn't commit to myself either

I couldn't love myself
I couldn't believe in myself
I couldn't process the trauma
I had no idea how to
I didn't know what to do
I felt only pain all of the time
Underneath everything else
I always had a sadness hanging onto me
I was emotionally unavailable
I didn't know how to love
I didn't know what love meant
Because I never loved myself
And I don't believe that line
That you can't love someone else
Until you love yourself first
But it sure makes it easier

Back then,
I didn't trust myself
So I let everyone else lead my life
I never questioned the path either
I just accepted life as it was
Because I didn't believe that I could change it
Which leaked into our relationship
Because if there was something I needed
Or something I was unhappy with
I could have tried to talk about it
I made the choice not to

I used to self-sabotage a lot
Before I realized that I didn't have to
I could feel those urges anytime
But that did not mean I had to carry them out
I lived entirely by my emotions at that time
When I was sad, nothing could be positive
When I was angry, I had to let it out
I did not even consider that
My actions and my emotions
Are two entirely different things

I have grown so much since then
I'd like to hope you'd be proud
Because despite anything I've said or done
I still care about how you feel
And how you see me
I'm always tempted to check your writing
But now I can distinguish between
My helpful and unhelpful urges
So I do not allow myself to try
You deserve your privacy
And I deserve to not let these residual feelings
Interfere with my life now

I just want you to know that
I messed up when I hurt you
I made a choice for us both
Instead of sitting down together
To talk and figure out how we both felt
I don't think I could have figured myself out
If I hadn't left when I did

Because since then
I went through a toxic relationship
That empowered me almost as much as it broke me
And I hurt some people along the way too
I thought I loved people I really didn't
I did acid and developed positive habits as a result
I actually take care of myself now
And most of the time I like myself
Often I even love myself
I stopped doing drugs
I finally trust myself and
I listened to myself for once
And I'm changing my career path now
I learned to be mindful of my feelings
And to not take them out on those I love
I learned what love means
I developed more compassion
I learned to be assertive
And entirely honest and real
I learned who I am

And now I'm here
An entirely different person
Writing a final letter to you
A person who I loved
Who's also entirely different now
But someone who could have been my forever
Once upon a time

But I'd like to believe in fate
And trust that all of this
Is exactly what needed to happen
For both of us to grow into ourselves
And I can't speak for you
But you will always be in my heart
Thank you for the years we spent together
Thank you for teaching me that life isn't all bad
Thank you for being there for me
For being patient and kind and for loving me
Thank you for being you
I truly hope that you find happiness
I wish you peace and love
And everything good
And I wish the same for me
Charise Clarke Jun 2010
Limbs littered the earth, her negligee no longer lay in his soldier’s
world; he would do anything to smell her perfume
once more. What day was it? Ahhh…Monday,
the perfect first date, a moon-
lit walk on a beach. He felt like a train
about to crash and nobody was dancing.  

She felt alien alone in their home. Dancing
was impossible and she stared at the photo, a soldier’s
face, not his own. Limbo was a train
journey that never ended. Billboards advertising perfume
and the never ending sun, the never ending moon.
The name of the days changed but Monday

was no different from Tuesday or last Monday.
She wondered if disabled people thought dancing
ridiculous. He could return disabled…the moon
was full tonight, she wondered if he in his soldier’s
uniform would be admiring it remembering her perfume
and not side stepping dead bodies feeling like a train

wreck. How many poor driver’s of trains
were haunted by suicides, faces looming out, the Monday
blues? And some women will never afford perfume
and would never be taken out dancing,
it did not console her. She was one of thousands of soldier’s
wives all gazing wistfully at the unhelpful moon.

She dreams of werewolves howling at the moon,
of him passing through a dark forest on a train
coming back to her, having thrown his soldier’s
gun, stamped in the mud, rejected. But she was the gun, Monday
and no letter had come and her nerves were dancing,
she knocked over her most expensive bottle of perfume.





He was dead, she would never replace the perfume.
She would smash bottles sticking her tongue out at the moon
throwing herself around in life, dancing
like a boat in a storm, occasionally consider suicide by train
but she would never do it. Saturday, Sunday, Monday
all days trooped past like the heavy march of a soldier.

The word soldier stank of cheap perfume and
everything was mundane especially the moon.
People hurry her by like late trains, only a few whirl past dancing.
Lucia May 2012
As I flit from A to B - Candleford to Larkrise
Laurieston to Gatehouse of Fleet
I flit, spit from A to B
Calling all Bluebells
assist me in my move -11th May, '11
Let Fairy Fawn be fair and true
and pure with humility
For his Fairy Lu - La Fee Lu
could get so blue
if he is not on time

All praises Bluebells
He is here

T'was but a year since
I'd wished upon a
Castramond Bluebell
in April 2010

And now we sit in utter Bliss
Ensonced in historical Dunblane
Fairy Fawn paints on and on
And I just sit, dismiss
All negativity, anything dark
I know that light will disperse the unhelpful hearse
darkness, death and dour ways
Disolve in the sun this late spring morn
Let Bees Browse among the Heather Blooms
Like love now maturing from twenty-eight days to a year and day
4th of the 4th 2012
emmaline Apr 2016
Kurt Queller uses narrative criticism to analyze Mark 3:1-6, the healing miracle story in the gospel of Mark.  Queller’s narrative criticism includes “echoes of the Exodus liberation narrative” , echoes of Deuteronomy’s covenant language and Sabbatical provisions , intratextual echoes in Mark , and independent echoes in the other synoptic gospels.  Queller uses these echoes to fill in the gaps he finds in the story of Jesus healing the man with the withered hand on the Sabbath.
In the beginning of his criticism, Queller lists the gaps in Mark 3:1-6’s narrative that he seeks to fill: the meaning of the withered hand, Jesus’ reason for healing on the Sabbath, His reason for considering the withered hand life-threatening, why it is a choice between good and evil, et cetera.  He begins filling these gaps by referencing intertextual echoes of Mark 3:1-6 in Exodus.  Jesus’ command to the man with the withered hand in Mark 3:5, “Stretch out your hand,” is echoed in Exodus 14:16 where God commands Moses, “stretch out your hand.” When the man with the withered hand stretches out his hand, his hand is restored. Likewise, when Moses stretches out his hand, the Reed Sea parts, resulting in the restoration of the Israelites’ freedom.
Queller’s reference to this echo in Exodus, paired with other echoes he mentions in Deuteronomy, helped me begin to understand Jesus’ insistence on healing the withered hand. Queller was able to use the echoes to fill in the gaps I previously could not fill. In Deuteronomy 15, God’s covenant requires liberal lending and debt forgiveness to the poor on the Sabbath year. God reminds the Israelites that He delivered them from Egypt in verse 15, and He claims that this is the reason for His liberal Sabbatical law. Thus, this Deuteronomic prescription for Sabbath observance is a continuation of the Exodus liberation narrative. Queller mentions these echoes in Exodus and Deuteronomy to draw a larger narrative framework for understanding Mark’s controversial healing story.
In my initial reading, I recognized that a withered hand is not necessarily a matter of life and death. Like Queller, this was a gap that I initially set out to fill. However, I was unable to fill this gap in a way that completely satisfied my confusion on the matter. Queller’s larger narrative framework for this passage led me to a better understanding of why Jesus considered the withered hand worthy to heal on the Sabbath.
According to Queller’s filling of the gaps, the withered hand is an affliction that can be compared to the Israelites’ enslavement in Egypt. The withered hand also embodies the economic predicament of the poor, who remain enslaved to their debt to the rich.  Such enslavement could be a death sentence, which is why the Sabbath requires the liberation of slaves and debt forgiveness of the poor. It seems plausible to me that a withered hand could cause a man to be enslaved and/or perpetually poor. This line of reasoning, provided by Queller’s larger narrative framework, allowed me to truly see how the Sabbath could require Jesus’ healing of the withered hand.
Another gap Queller and I similarly set out to fill is the question of what constitutes as doing good and what constitutes as doing evil on the Sabbath. This gap also arises from Mark 3:4, in which Jesus asks, “Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to ****?” (Mark 3:4 NIV). In his analysis of this particular part of this particular verse, Queller points out a small important detail that I originally missed. Mark 3:4 does not set the frame for a passive, inner choice between good and evil.  The literal wording says, “to do good or to do evil.” The choice between good and evil on the Sabbath thereby requires action.
While recognizing that required action is problematic for the restful nature of the Sabbath, Queller supports his assertion by referencing Deuteronomy 30. Deuteronomy 30’s prescription for obedience of the Sabbath repeats the active command, “do it.”  Queller illustrates the parallelism between Mark and Deuteronomy by placing Deuteronomy 30:14 and Mark 3:4-5 in a figure side-by-side.  Deuteronomy 30:14 says, “The word is very near to you, in your mouth, and in your heart, and in your hands, to do it.” With this commandment as the framework, Mark 3:4-5 spells out the Pharisees’ failure to do good; It says, “But they were silent . . . grieved at their hardness of heart, he said to the man: ‘Stretch out your hand.’ And he stretched it out.”
From this, Queller concludes, “The ‘word’ to be done is already ‘in [their] mouth’ – but they refuse to say anything in response; it is ‘in [their] heart’ – but their heart is hardened against it. It is ‘in [their] hands, to do it’ – but as Jesus turns again to address the man, our attention is directed back to an inert hand, that, in its current withered state, seems unlikely to do anything.”  From this I am now able to conclude that which constitutes as doing “good” on the Sabbath is acting on the word. The word is completely accessible to us, and we must use our mouths, hearts, and hands to act upon it.
This gap of good and evil action that Queller helps fill also provides further evidence for the necessity of Jesus’ healing of the withered hand. Since the hands are required to carry out good action in obedience of the covenant, the withered hand is an affliction that can breach said covenant. Queller asserts that the withered hand symbolizes “the tangible embodiment of [the Pharisees] unwillingness, despite the ‘nearness’ of the word, to do it.”  Jesus, by necessity, must heal this affliction to show the Pharisees how to act according to the law of the Sabbath; “The stretching out of the hand then becomes a ‘witness against’ those who have chosen to forgo or even prohibit action because of exclusively sacral concerns.”  Without the preceding narrative frame of Deuteronomy, such significance of the withered hand for the Sabbath covenant was impossible for me to comprehend.
Though Queller is certainly helpful in providing evidence that enables understanding of the withered hand’s significance, there are parts of his criticism that I find contradictory and unhelpful. This occurs when he references echoes in Exodus and Deuteronomy to provide a framework for understanding the Pharisees’ silence in Mark 3:4 and hardness of hearts in Mark 3:5. He first relates the Pharisees’ hardened heart in response to Jesus’ plea in Mark to the Pharaoh’s hardened heart in response to Moses’ numerous pleas in Exodus. In my concordance work, I also made this connection. However, Queller and I differ in the conclusions we draw from this observation.
Queller draws from Deuteronomy to provide framework in conjunction with Exodus for understanding Mark’s interpretation of the Sabbatical law. He references Deuteronomy 29:19, which warns against thinking one can receive the blessings of the covenant while breaching it in the inner wanderings of the heart. This passive infidelity of the covenant brings God’s curse to the innocent as well as the guilty. Queller uses this context to explain why his literal translation says Jesus “co-aggrieved”  with the Pharisees because of their silence and hard hearts. The Pharisees’ passive, inner breach of the covenant invoked God’s curse on them, as well as the innocent Jesus, according to Queller.  
When I analyzed Jesus’ reaction to the hard hearts of the Pharisees in comparison to God’s reaction to that of the Pharaoh, I realized that the same Greek word was used to describe Jesus’ anger and God’s wrath. However, the consequences of Jesus’ anger and God’s wrath do not relate as clearly as Queller would lead one to believe. As a result of the Pharaoh’s hard heart, God’s wrath leads to the Pharaoh’s ultimate demise. Jesus’ resulting anger from the Pharisees’ hard hearts, on the other hand, catalyzes his decision to heal the withered hand. This action ultimately leads to Jesus’ destruction alone. Jesus, the innocent character, does not fall to the mutual destruction of the Pharisees, per Queller’s argument. I see no destruction of the Pharisees at all. Instead, Jesus restores God’s blessing of the guilty by becoming the recipient of God’s wrath in their place.
This conclusion, though differing from Queller, is consistent with his interpretation of the withered hand. Queller writes, “The withered hand embodies covenant curses invoked against those refusing to ‘open [their] hands’ in liberal lending, instead killing the poor by freezing credit in view of an impending sabbatical debt amnesty” . If the withered hand embodies God’s curse against the Pharisees, then Jesus revokes this curse when he cures the withered hand. Furthermore, the larger narrative framework of Mark’s gospel echoes this conclusion. Jesus’ crucifixion ultimately pays the debt of sinners and liberates them from God’s wrath.
Kurt Queller’s narrative criticism uses intertextuality, a narrative tool that “evokes resonances of the earlier text beyond those explicitly cited”  and “requires the reader to recover unstated or suppressed correspondences between the two texts.”  Such intertextual echoes he references from Deuteronomy and Exodus provide a larger background for interpreting Mark’s healing controversy. This granted me the ability to fill many gaps in the narrative that I was unable to fill prior to reading Queller’s criticism. In a footnote, he explains that his “metalepsis” uses such intertextual echoes for analysis, and, “In narrative, the resultant new figuration operates at what Robert M. Fowler calls the ‘discourse level.’ Metaleptic signification is thus transacted between an implied narrator and an implied audience – as it were, behind the backs of the narrative’s ‘story-level’ participants.”
The intertextual and metaleptic tools that Queller uses for his narrative criticism have proven to be very insightful and helpful for my understanding Mark 3:1-6 in an entirely new way. Even as I disagree with Queller on certain parts of his argument, these points of disagreement pushed me to deepen my own individual reading of the text. In comparing my argument to Queller’s, I realized just how far my initial interpretation was able to go. This narrative criticism answered a lot of my questions and filled many gaps. However, most of my conclusions about the implications and ultimate consequences of the text remain unshaken.  
Bibliography
Queller, Kurt. “Stretch Out Your Hand!” Echo and Metalepsis in Mark’s Sabbath Healing Controversy. Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 4 (2010): 737-58.
This is a narrative criticism in conversation with Kurt Queller's criticism. The in-text footnotes didn't transfer to this website but all quotes are referencing his work, which is cited at the end.
The parrot has 3 billion neurons in its brain
We have 86 billion
And most of mine are busy
forming unhelpful pathways
Misleading my good intentions.
Still, 3 billion neurons
seems like enough room for a few
unruly pathways


The parrot can repeat phrases
Which we thought to be
pretty cool
So we trapped him
and put him in a cage
And in our living rooms
Alone


The parrot knows how to survive happily
Within his world
Within his world, with 30 others of his kind
And a partner for life.
In his world
he would fly with his flock
To trees to pick fresh fruit
Now he perches on his own
And picks dry fruit out of a bowl.
In his world
he would prune his partners feathers
He would look after her
And she him
Now he perches on his own
And prunes his feathers
until there are none left.


Its an unhelpful neuro pathway, you see?
Some form of OCD?
Maybe its a way to cope?
Maybe its the brain spiralling
Trying to figure out what to do
Because it can't be a parrot anymore
It has to learn to be a toy
A talking point
And the parrot doesn't know how to be that
He only knows how to be a parrot
Birds belong in the wild, not in our homes.
Westley Barnes Jun 2012
It's a shame how you must have aspired me to become the child you always wanted
in the months and days before  I was born,
before reality had its chance to construct the person I would become.
when the happy news was first heard of a new child in a new world,
who would be brave and cheerful and kind
and above all sporty,
the kind that would make an impression,a born leader and dutiful follower
a proud patron of the family name.
We would have much in common and I would remind you of yourselves
at such an impressionable age
and I would achieve all you had hoped for.

But perhaps this is the great tragedy that parents stumble upon in this constant letdown of a life.

You were lucky that I was an easy child,never keeping you up at night and never causing trouble,
but the fact that I was lazy,introspective,morbid,
cowardly,unat­tentive,unhelpful,bookis­h,obsessive,
uni­nvolving and unsatisfied
made me realise how much I must have let you down.
I sigh too much,I read too much,I'm so full full of sarcasm that I cannot take anything seriously,
I never want to be the focus of attention,I never eat enough,I dont care about trends,
I dont care if people comprehend me.

I must be impossible to love.

Thats why I have decided to never have children.
They could never be what I would expect of them.
I could never love someone who I was ultimately responsible for,
someone who I could indoctrinate into my own idea of happiness.
John F McCullagh Sep 2013
In a long happy marriage
Sometimes bedtime grows stale
Once toe curling *** fades
As libidos doth fail.

We both have tough jobs
And two kids of our own.
Sad, we both want to sleep
When we’re finally alone

The man at the store
Said “I have just the thing.
You really should try it-
makes your *** life take wing!”

It wasn’t a **** flick
Or a blue pill to swallow,
Just a tiny transmitter
to hide in her pillow.

At night, as she slept,
The salesman explained
My subliminal message
would be fed to her brain.

With her passions inflamed
She would turn to her mate
Like the once nubile bride-
Leave the rest up to fate.

So I made a recording
With a saucy suggestion
Then looked forward to bedtime
hoping for the res-errection.

My bride’s a deep sleeper,
(A good thing since I snore)
The tape’s played two weeks now
And I still haven’t scored.

I completely was baffled
That salesman assured
That no “wood” would go wasted
No ***** ignored.

Instead every night
About two thirty nine
I’d slip off to the bath
Where the “beat” would go on



I resolved to return
The unhelpful device
Before the guarantee ended
And I’d be out the price

Imagine my shock,
imagine my dread
When I found the transmitter
in my pillow instead!

Seems my wife had decided
To play with my head:
“Honey, go f8ck yourself,
If you wake me, you’re dead.”
marital aide fails hubby
I see the pain
Has marked my face
I am nothing
If not a disgrace

The lines that I
Have long drawn
Make me tired
And so I yawn

I look at all this mess
There is no outcome
And so I guess

This is just how it is
Nothing else to this

But I hate that thought
That these relationships
Are simply for nought

I don't want to believe
That this is true
But that's how it seems
Judging by the view

But maybe the view is wrong
Maybe I need to look
For a little bit longer
And maybe the outlook will change

I long to be close
To a human soul
And have each other
Truly know

The inner workings
And the outer show
But instead in my heart
The distance will grow

I am unsure
If its worth the risk
I am not pure

Perhaps that is why
Everyone will fly
Away from me
When they see
Who I really am
And my life is a sham
I am not me
Or who I want to be
But i long to grow
And to show
The world all my work
To let them all look
What the demon took
And see how I went on
And continued living
But yet no one know
And so I am alone.
Random nothingness my poems seem to be getting worse and worse the more I write.
Becky Littmann Jul 2014
Today is one of those days
My mind has sooooo much clutter
I don't know where to even begin
My table I sit, staring blankly at my notebook
Waiting for some sort of words to come out
But blank the paper still stays
Sloppy words, quite unhelpful, I mutter
It's so loud in my head, I wish you could listen
My eyes glaze over when into the clouds I look
Thoughts going floating all about
& truly I reassured you that my words are quite real
& tell you how high my anxiety level rose
My attention spans is worse than a hyper active, strung out crack addict
Who is in Walmart's clearance section
Up & down up & down sliding clothes back & forth over five times
Sometimes things feel so surreal
Almost like a mirage I suppose
.....**** every two minutes there I wander off distracted
If it doesn't catch my interest quick, then it's see ya later attention
.....ooooh glitter, shiny sparkles oh so pretty wind chimes

Well that helped unblock my daze
My mind just needed to choose where to start
It was something in the clouds that ignited a brain spark
& all of sudden my mind was like "where are my pens?"
No more distant stares, sitting in front of blank paper
.....ooooooweeeee.... Goodness I  really gotta remember to blink during my gaze
Yes, that would've been smart
Then maybe every blink wouldn't open up so heavily dark
& I could clearly walk without blindly step by step suspense
I am just a day dreamer kinda creator
E Nov 2023
Driving on the road every day is how I connect and see those in my community. In a given month, I pass by thousands of cars. Why is it that I feel the most alone in transit to my destinations?

Driving recklessly, driving with suicidal intent, driving under the influence are all acts of violence. How can I make these same people care about themselves and the people in their life if they are unforgiving in weapons of destruction?

I ask those to take "sonder" into their commute. Do you see the man 300 feet away in the car with his wife and children? Do you see the breast cancer survivor in the pink car with their eldest daughter? Do you see the bicyclist doing their daily commute? Do you see their life outside of their commute— their love, their hobbies, their favorite books and songs, and their trauma?

We should all hold space and reflect when in passing. To be mindful and present, we are equally human, with drive and something that drives us. We need to start giving a ****.

How are we supposed to care for one another when all that surrounds us are displays of violence? It’s more than the overt displays—recklessness and abuse towards ourselves or others, hate crimes, police brutality, genocide, institutions of slavery.

When certain events enter into the collective consciousness, because we are forced to witness them; these acts tend to remind us we are disenfranchised. We are silenced. We are powerless. Until we mobilize and resist in acts of love.

Let me remind whoever is reading this: we criminalize and demonize those who give sanctuary, those who educate and speak their truth, those who feed the unhoused, those who do work on the ground, and those involved in policy.

We think little of those with degrees, fixations, and aspirations dealing in social justice, social studies, and sciences. To commemorate and value everyone as a human being is far more important than aspiring to become the next billionaire.

I don’t wake up and dream about wealth. I dream about people feeling safe and having resources on hand if they ever encounter a crisis. I dream about others committing to mutual aid and bartering practices as a way to help one another but also resist. I dream about shutting off our devices because we can call out unhelpful discourse and disinformation. I dream about others having a shared trait to discuss than to find every reason to think they’re so different.

I think I understand what finding community means. Though I haven’t talked to enough people, I can envision community as reaching over to the next person and actively hearing them, seeing them, and being there how you can. Community is being heard, community is finding love in places you thought you couldn’t, and it’s giving a ****.
we need solidarity right now for all disenfranchised and oppressed peoples on this world, and i don’t see how we can do that without caring at the local, state, or national level. i ask that you make a new friend, find genuine connections, and spread beam of lights into people. for those who are depressed or otherwise cannot do it’s easily, i see you and i hear you. i love you, even if you don’t know me. you matter and your life matters. from the river to the sea, palestine will be free.
Max Hale Apr 2012
Come Glastonbury, demand your suitors
Eliminate the negatives of their days
Show the signs of cheer and promise
Crystal clear and sun bright
The walkways between the tiny shops
Where escaping through to back doors and out
Inside spirits claim your soul
Wrestle your pathetic reliance on consumerism
Your slavish concern for fashion
And your unhelpful TV dinners
There in Glastonbury only truth is spoken
Revealing the weaknesses of our human frame
Our minds that suffer from prejudices and bigotry
Cleanse your soul, become yourself
Give up the senseless living that has dominated
And driven our daily chores and lifestyle
Discard them all and believe that man
Is just a tiny part of this cosmos
A spirit and energy of the completeness
Not the embodiment
Not the utmost but a small part
Perhaps a much lesser being than any other...
Despite everything we are special
You are special in your individual capabilities
Each soul a grain of stardust
Waiting to be reunited in the cosmos
With the rest of the wonderful plethora
Be calm in the knowledge that you
Your heart and soul
Are one and only
Unique
Even today in Glastonbury
But those eyes,
Ah,
I live for those eyes.
Fergol Oct 2020
Panic, panic, panic,
An ecstasy of fear-
What’s wrong with you, don’t you realise your family are near?
My mind is manic-
And all you can say is oh dear?
Can u ever just be here?
Help me with this fear?
Help, that’s all I need to end this paralysing fear,
Not your unhelpful, fault-finding sneer.
chloe hooper Jun 2015
if you are missing him, remember this. remember how cruel he was to you, how every time he drove away the moonlight made your skin look bruised, it made you feel soft. remember that you are not. you might break but you will always heal. think of the nights where he turned away and refused to let you touch him, nights where he moaned your best friends' names into your mouth while you tried to prove how much you loved him, nights where he'd refuse to stop yelling until you put your hands on him. do not think of his hands, or his mouth, or any of the bones in his body. they're not for you. they're not for anybody but himself and you should pity the fact he doesn't know how to love them. you gave your best to him and he crumpled it up until it looked like your worst. don't feel sorry for being emotional, he was a gaping wound in your chest and things like that deserve a good cry. if you're missing him, remember how distant he was, how when you'd sink down on him he wouldn't be looking at your face. how his shoes were always graffitied with the numbers of other girls. how in the middle of a date he asked another girl her name. I know it hurts, it's going to be okay, I promise. remember how unhelpful he was? how little he cared, moving so fast he could never type the 'I?' he blamed you for loving him too much, for being too sad: both things were his fault. I know it doesn't seem like it but I promise there is somebody much, much more lovely, somebody who will treat you like a cloud, and won't throw a fit when you start to rain. you just have to wait.
mikecccc Nov 2015
Terrorism *****
But you already know that
People died
For such stupid reasons
And more will die
In retaliation
Mostly innocents
If we had no gods
Would this
kind of thing stop
Probably not
People ****
and People die
For all sorts
of stupid reasons
Maybe one day
Things like this won't happen
But I doubt it.
Patrick N Jan 2015
Offence has no real validity,
Yet it is used to justify the taking of lives
Is there one, that the world does not offend
If so that person has not lived or felt,

Warlords, rapists, racists, murderers and those who are cancers on society walk among us daily
Those who profess to know the will of god and act on his behalf,
Perceiving  and executing unhelpful dogma that infects our reality  

The words respect and correctness have become harbingers for cowards,
As our muteness silently strips us of our freedom,
Apologies are offered gift wrapped in fear
Sticks and stones still break our bones but pictures and words now ****** us
12 people had their lives taken by three machine gunmen in Paris on Tuesday 7th January 2015. They were killed in and outside of the building of the satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo. The attack was for cartoonists who had depicted Muhammad in a cartoon. Yes, twelve people lost their lives over a cartoon. An absolute tragedy.

http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jan/07/charlie-hebdo-shooting-paris-magazine-target-raid
Jamesb Jan 2024
You can really hurt yourself
If you hold your breath too long,
Headaches and dulled vision,
Part way to passing out with enough
Determination,
Add water and depth and a swift rise,
The bends as bubbles of gas
Form in unhelpful places,
Or swam too deep too far
And barely making the surface
That suddenly seems so far
From my feebly flapping limbs,

I guess we have all held
Our breath across the years,
Waiting on some thing or someone
To finally come good,
Or arrive or even just to be,
Somehow or somewhere or somewhen,
Breath suspended,
Life on hold just waiting with
Inextinguishable hope
Of something good,
And precious,
Worth waiting for,

Well I know I have,
And I know I have been the one,
The thing and or the circumstance
That has caused breath to be held,
And to my shame not always
Was I worth it,
But now - actually it is me with bursting lungs,
And the pain is near unbearable,
Perhaps time to let out that air with
A loud and pain filled gush,
To turn and start the swim
To shore

Some dreams are never meant

To be
Eliza Aug 2017
Bold and beyond motive or reason
Standing taller than the wall of freedom
We have a spirit killer in our mist
Eager to feed the haggard deceased
With advice on how to survive
The ways of this punishing world
With the slap of an insult here
And then the sound of a gun
No one appreciates the critic
Always on the achievement run
Too far inside their stylish world
To help you improve and vanquish
The critic inside your own
Mercury Chap Apr 2015
Let me write a sad limerick
Pouring out emotions from a skin so thick
Inking the pale page of no memories
Let me blow on it some gusty breeze
Let me write a sad limerick.

Let me write a sad limerick
Of my well being which sounds so sick
Hours of speculation make me famished
But I can't eat, my hunger has vanished
Let me write a sad limerick.

Let me write a sad limerick
I have a wall around built from dark brick
The trapped painful lonesome feelings
Tear me more, less healing
Let me write a sad limerick.

Let me write a sad limerick
You make me sadder you unhelpful *****
Leave my life, don't you see
There is no one that you can change me?
Let me write a sad limerick.

Let me write a sad limerick
Sick and tired of my mind's tricks
I want revenge then I'll be free
If I make him bleed I won't disagree
Let me now stop this limerick.
Brea Brea May 2013
Lets travel barefoot into our minds eye, back to dine town.
lets go back to a ****** place, where the winds speak
we can take care of you
the leaves rest on our tongue
and the land is more romanticized
than mankind can content itself with
she is boundless, she has molded herself to provide
from her womb we find comfort, long before the hands have reached her
mortal man could walk the river as the fish overflowed mother earths rift
They spoke of deliverance when they severed your cord from her
and brought you to the garden of eden
The hands
here is your town, no longer a village
here is your food, no longer a crop
here is your shelter
they shelter your head and heart with concrete
concrete made from the materials of different lands
what does it do here? who does it serve?
when the world is made from it's ashes
in a way that is unhelpful to us and those around us
why do we do what is unhelpful?
Steve Page May 2022
The sun is down
It's been down for a while
and while she hasn't said outright,
we think it might
be a power play
for a perceived lack of praise

The sun is down
We have been discussing
ways to raise her spirits
without out and out worship
(which would set
an unhelpful precedent)
And so we start with a song
A homage, thanking her
A call, asking her to rise and smile
And it only takes a child sacrifice
once, twice and thrice
to coax her back - a small price,
and before long she's her old delight
and we tell ourselves it's not worship
it's just the just payment due
based on the new tarrifs
for light and heat
and the cost of living
in this solar energy
over dependancy
greener economy
Not sure what this about.  If you have any ideas, let me know, otherwise I'll chalk it up to whimsy.
NitaAnn Jul 2013
And Just Me.
No clichés…
No humor…
No pretending…
Just Nita without the famous mask talking to you
And you know who you are, if you’re still here, and if you read this
(however, if you read this and you even think it’s you, but it isn’t then it probably applies to you – so yeah, then I’m talking to you too)

Last night I cried for you…
I cried for you and I cried for me…
I cried for all of us.
I cried for all of the hardship & pain you have had to endure in this life,
I cried at the unfairness of it all.
I cried for all the kids and adults who were damaged beyond repair
By the people who were supposed to love them the most.

I cried because you trusted me enough to reach out to me
I cried because I wasn’t sure what to do to help.
It broke my heart to hear you say that no one loves you
And to know that you really believe you are bad and unlovable.
I know you’re scared
I know you hurt
I know that you think there is only one way out of the all-consuming pain.
I believe you when you say you can’t do it anymore.
I know you feel that way.
I know because I feel that way too.

I know about all of those things.
What I don’t know is how to help you get through it.
How to make it okay for you.
For any of us.

I care about you.
I love you.
But I know that my voice is not nearly as loud as the critic inside of you.
The one who has convinced you that you don’t matter
That you are bad and unlovable the world would be better off without you.
I don’t know how to fight that voice either.

If I were with you right now
I would sit with you
I would bandage your cuts for you.
I would tell you in person that I care.
I think of you
I cry for you
I wonder how you are doing.
In fact, I’m wondering how you are doing right now.
I don’t know if you are dead or alive.
I don’t know if you made it through the night.
I hope you did but I don’t know.
That’s selfish of me to say – because I understand not wanting to,
And the mere pain of actually “waking up” day after day.

I’m sorry if my suggestions last night seemed to you like putting a Barbie band-aid on a point blank shotgun wound to the chest. I’m sure it must have felt like that. Sometimes I wish I had a tourniquet instead. But I don’t. But at least I didn’t offer you any kool-aid, or tell you to hold an ice cube, or peel an orange , right? (cuz we know that **** don’t work for sure!)

I don’t know the way out of this, my friend.
If I did, I would scream it from the rooftops.
But I hope you know that even though I am absolutely 200% insane & totally unhelpful,
I do care about you.
And I thank you for inviting me into your life…and for leaving your footprint on mine.
Cat Fiske May 2015
My film class,
Is my favorite class

and the class I hate the most,

I love film,
I have a passion for this art,

this medium,

this class is my soul and bodies passion,
and like a job,

like my job,

it fits me,
but like all jobs,

there's things that just ******* ****.

and it's not over the normal things,
like time and money,

its the people you work with,

or in my case,
my class,

and they are all *****,

when someone makes it their point,
to upset you and hurt you everyday,

because finally you are good at something,

when you **** at science,
and allowed your math skills to fall behind,

your life is filled with lies and you find,

a reason to live,
worth all your effort and time

but the same people calling you stupid and dumb and a **** up,

in math and science,
are in this film class,

forced to take a smile,

and sarcastically say,
"good job,"

when your film gets played in class,

and even when you ask,
no one give you advice like you give when asked,

and every frame seen on the projected screen,

gives me anxiety,
and the rude, unhelpful reminders from my bullies,

don't ******* help me,

when I want to run out of my favorite class daily,
and scream  in all their faces,

"*******"

"for once..."
but I don't

I sit,

I bit skin off skinless lips,
hold back tears,

the urge to leave,

take all my insults
that are directed at me,

with a head tilted down fake half smile,

when they should be directed to my film,
but everyday, I do get to say;

*******,

because this year,
I make it to all my classes,

even the next one,

history.
period 11/12

with my dignity
My sadness and upsetness by these people, but how oh how it prepares me for the real world. I Am better than I was, and will only get better, and that's all you can hope for.
mikecccc Sep 2015
We're all doomed
and theirs nothing to do
says
the cynical sloth
all is gloom and doom
so you may as well
hop in a hammock
and sip drinks from coconuts
This is wrong
or so they claim
because letting things rot
since nothing is perfect
is incredibly unhelpful
also nothing ventured
means nothing gained
but doesn't mean
nothing lost.
Peyton Smith Nov 2012
(more lyrics than poetry, but whatever)
It scares me so much, the words that she writes,
The pills that she takes, to go to sleep every night,
The things that she says, how she argues and fights,
I just want everything to end up alright,
I’m not gonna say I can’t deal, I try and I will,
I’d fight and i’d ****, and if the beans are being spilled,
I love her so much, and my love’s the brashest, the boldest,  
I hope how much I care is never going unnoticed,
Let it be noted, my feelings are the truest I could ever express,
And I’m thankful everyday she choose me over the rest,
But I just feel useless, unhelpful and stupid,
I know how her pain feels, I swear i’ve been through it,
If I could erase it, I promise I’d do it,
If I could take it, I’d move it, i’d break it,
So next time she smiles, she wont have to fake it
Mary Allard Oct 2018
like buying new shoes
finding what clinical issue
fits right
to describe what i am feeling
when i cry every night
Paul Hansford May 2016
A site I used to post to had a somewhat unhelpful, not to say discouraging,  line when you had posted a poem and nobody had commented it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“There is no comment submitted by members.”
Nobody bothers; nobody cares;
nobody gives a hoot how my work fares
– or they mean to say something, but no-one remembers.

The fire of my passion is reduced to grey embers;
the most piercing of glances just meet with dull stares.
There is no comment submitted by members.
Nobody bothers; nobody cares.

Like summers of hope fading into Septembers,
or flowers I’ve grown being smothered with tares,
I search and I search but, despite all my prayers,
I read once again, with a chill like December’s,
“There is no comment submitted by members.”
The form is a Rondel, and its mostly in dactyls (a three-syllable beat).
Josiah W Menzies Mar 2013
What are you thinking? She said.
Have you ever tried standing outside
Late at night and have everything
Sound so silent that you can
Hear your ears ringing?
No. She said.
What are you thinking?
Nothing. She said.

And then you realise,
Staring into wide effervescent eyes,
That your intense willingness to be
Open and honest with this
Daisy-chain enwreathed
Creature of sensation,
Does not compliment
Her nervous wish to maintain
an extraordinarily exquisite air of mystery.

A mystery in itself, no less...
...and rather unhelpful, if you ask me.
lately i've been scared
worried the darkness will last
but i hope i'm wrong

i feel powerless
so backed into a corner
but i hope i'm wrong

i feel judging eyes
like i'm not just projecting
but i hope i'm wrong

i think i see it
they wince when my mouth opens
but i hope i'm wrong

i feel unwanted
it's unlucky to know me
but i hope i'm wrong

unhelpful and shamed
no one is glad i'm here, right?
i just hope i'm wrong

only by working—
my body, my only strength
my hands hold children
but my mind is too broken
prove to me i'm wrong

Inefficient love
Subpar communication
Almost good enough
Almost worth listening to
If you say nothing
You confirm it with silence
But if you argue
Please bring some more evidence
I'm trying to hope
That this self-talk's distorted
I'm sorry my pain
Is underreported
If nobody cared
Then surely I'd be alone
And not surrounded
By those who want to love me—
But I don't know how
To feel the love that they show.
I shrink back, I hide,
Because it hurts me sometimes.
These are all my thoughts
They feel so true in my mind.
But I really hope I'm wrong.
Yenson Feb 2019
" The world does not need any more white saviours. As I've said before, this just perpetuates tired and unhelpful stereotypes. Let's instead promote voices from across the continent of Africa and have serious debate. "

Ah David, oh David my son
don't you know by now that white supremacy is the old black
they don't want  the educated black like you
they don't harbour the progressive talented intellectual black
only place acceptable is the sports field, the drug den and their beds
but please remember.......
your only worth to them is your enormous member and passion
your hot chilli drive, your fabled great stamina and that shiny
gleaming mahogany hue, the stuff of dreams, no brains required
NOW YOU BETTER KNOW.......
if you dare turn down a bed invite in East London by cockney wenches on heat
Say good-bye to any life you had and welcome hell's miseries
How dare you, who the hell do you think you are
You think you're better than us, you think you're superior

We will take you down a ****** strip, we will make sure you'll
never have another woman in your life
We rule the world, you better know it, you black *******
How dare you
We will wipe you out, erase you, swat you dead like a fly
We will make you wish you were never born

Bro, you're not supposed to talk back
Know your place even though you're an MP
You are still a TOKEN, still a minority, still a ****** blackman
Just thank your lucky stars and shut up!

WE are the Supreme beings and we rule your ***!
Hx Mar 2014
Faded Magnificence.

Faded brush strokes and overgrown pots,
Hint to magnificence lost to yesteryear.
Garments preened and tailored to perfection,
fashioned upon the season to which they adhere.
Scruffy untamed edges gone awry,
A once was glory now hidden beneath the brambles,
scruffy untamed edges gone awry.
Suffocating elegance under weeds and ivy,
despair now heavy on the eye.
The sunny yet sharp disposition of the dandelion,
entangled yet proudly rearing its spiky crown.
Assuming nobility amongst the weeds,
refusing to have its regalia pulled down.
The cobbled path barely visible from the weathered door,
A secret path known only to the past.
The dainty old lady aged and weathered herself,
has given up the ghost, to the weeds which grow too fast.
Her hands tremble as in vain,
she tries to snip and trim.
Desperate measures to regain the beauty from her mind,
with unhelpful uncoordinated limbs.
Each day committed she treads the garden path,
into the gardens midst.
Wrinkled eyes adoring the last upstanding rose,
who continues to persist.
A full can sprinkled each day by trembled wrist,
intent on feeding it with love.
Scarlet periapt resplendence, which once the garden
in its entirety was reminiscent of.
Brambles snag her petticoat,
Tugging at her frail frame in a tug of war.
Yet refusing a helping hand she proudly remembers,
how beautiful her garden sang and the melody of both their core.
The old lady existing for these moments,
to which they are juxtapose.
Existing upon each others love,
the old lady and the garden rose.

©Helen Mackenzie
Skye Applebome Apr 2014
I'm so sorry for it
One thing after another
Piled like our Italian dinner plates
Him, it, her, everything
And you deserve none of it.
You're one of the closest to perfect beings
I've ever had the pleasure of meeting
I wish I could be there for you
But I just end up being annoying and unhelpful,
And, I might also mention,
Nervous around beautiful people.
Wrote this in Italy, felt I should post it.
Yenson Mar 2019
He ran like the wind up the gangway
saw the door  still open
ahead near the door stood four Port attendants
gasping for breaths he reached them
with hands outstretched they stopped him
No, No, No, he cried
I've got to get on, I've got to get on

Sorry sir too late, their voices rang out
I'm afraid Sir, you're too late
What! look the door is still opened
Please, let me in, pleasee for heaven's sake
let me in, I've got to get on board
Sorry Sir, against the rules, you are just too late
but the door is still opened,please I beg you let me in

Afraid can't do that,you are just too late,
just too late today
What Jobsworth you lot are
how inconsiderate can you lot be
the ****** door is still open,why are you being so obstructive
isn't your job to help passengers,isn't that what you're paid to do
do you realize how inconvenient this is, do you realize what this
will cost me'
Sorry Sir, we are only doing our job
You are too late for this flight,go back to the departure Lounge
They'll help get you on a later flight,sorry but Rules are Rules
And with that   the plane doors were closed

Oh..how he hated these *******, ****** unhelpful inconsiderate
Jobsworth, ****** idiots, the whole lot of them, arseholes!

Dejectedly,he walked back to the ****** Departure Lounge
Fuming, dragging his ****** attache case, he sought out the
help desk
Cursing and muttering, he rued the ******* two minutes delay
that cost him this flight.
Angrily, he marched to the Air Ethiopia Check in desk
Sullenly he explained his plight!
Its a two hour wait for the next flight out, they informed him.
Still upset, he handed in his ticket and they did the necessary
Handing back his ticket, he walked away and sat in Departure
why, oh why did this happen to me, he muttered angrily
He sat miserably, he cursed again under his breath. **** God!

He had been sitting for about an hour when he noticed
people suddenly running around, something was happening
There was a real air of panic around, Officials were running
helter skelter, people were huddling in pockets, he saw
Police Official barking orders and Airport Staff talking excitedly
He heard some people shouting in a group to his right

He stood up alarmed
he stated walking towards a group to his left
Then he saw one of the Jobsworth that had stopped him from boarding his flight, the Jobsworth had a look of utter alarm
on his face, he was also sweating.
What's happening, what's wrong, he asked him, now alarmed himself.

Oh Sir, ooh Sir...the Jobsworth exclaimed, looking at him wide-eyed.

That Plane you missed has just crashed, killing everybody on board.....!!!
This is a true Story that happened very recently. The Ethiopian Airline that crashed about two weeks ago.

When we think or believe all is lost, we may not believe that more is given!!!!
All the things we do,
For illness,
To make ourselves worse;
It fuels the pain,
But we know we're just going back again.

What's the use?
Why not lose when there's
Nothing left
To win?
We give in,
Just so that this nothingness can win.

It's fine,
You're going to survive,
But do you completely want to?
Maybe you can't decide,
So instead you hide it inside.

You're told to get better,
But what does that mean?
It means you stop acting,
You get over it eventually.
Really?
Maybe if you're careful;
Find a way to fix yourself;
Make sure you don't break again.

Now move forward,
It's been a few years,
That's what everyone thinks.
You're all good now,
Even you believe,
At last you can do anything
-except what you were doing,
That is.
Avoid it like the plague,
To try to stay safe,
Although really you try creeping back,
Just to catch a glimpse of something
You know you shouldn't be looking at.

Then you wonder
About sending yourself back:
To the days in Hell,
The fight for escape,
Waiting for it to be over,
To be left alone.
**** the actions first,
Then learn how to cope
Without what you were destroying yourself with.

You're fine for now,
At least you guess you are,
Only you're surrounded by sorrow,
The misery with bouts of
Alright, just great.
But darkness lurks around the corner,
So will you follow,
Or do what you're supposed to be continuing with?

You want control,
Part of you wants to feel something,
Other than these emotions,
To stop hearing these thoughts,
And press stop on the memories,
Because with the present it hurts you,
Damaging - like what doesn't exist.

One time, go on:
Repeat like you used to,
What's the reason not to
When you just feel like you're lacking
Some of what you need?
And what is that?
The truth, surrender,
A cease to all this,
Someone else to leave?

You know it will push you somewhere,
Into a harsh reality
But one you hope that might be different,
From the one that pains you,
Even if you'll be guilty.
You'll have the satisfaction
Of finally
Doing something.
Again. You said never again,
But that wasn't true,
Did you even mean that?
You wonder as you retake
Your past baleful steps.

It doesn't own the same reasons
This time.
You just want to prove your
Destructive existence to yourself,
Even though you miss your
Dissociation from reality.
Maybe because if you do it,
It means you're not one hundred percent,
Just don't let anyone know,
Why should it harm anyone,
Except you because that's the whole issue?

It's okay though,
You've figured it out,
Like you always knew,
You were only kidding yourself,
You know you'd have to live
With the unhelpful effects,
It doesn't need to be any harder,
Than it already is.
Joanna Grace Apr 2014
For all of the things I want and wish you loved more often

your rapid thinking
your turning night into day
and your laugh that floats in amusement

your calming soul
and your dimple that shows
when you indulge in a genuine smile

your stomach
your selfless nature
and your strong grip on any remaining innocence

your honesty
and movement
and self control
although seemingly unhelpful
they make you a strong woman
something our society needs

your ability to choose
your own thoughts and choices
to disregard trends
and clothe yourself in a pity-less lifestyle

you are what i strive to be and what i am lucky enough to have today
for friends who don't know the extent of my adoration
Andrew Maitland Jul 2019
I'm tired of kicking this horse. Its already dead. It can't hear me yelling anymore. You all know I hate this horse because I kicked it to death. I kicked it to death because it refused to take me to the destination on my map. I realized that it couldn't take me anywhere because it had no eyes but it also had no will to follow my direction. My eyes are quite good and make up for the weaker parts of my body. So I jumped off and began kicking it. I kicked it for a long time but it would have died anyway on its own because it had no eyes and would have wandered off into the ocean and drowned eventually. In a way, this horse may have been already dead.

But like any good (very bad) story (?) it was all a dream.

I only fantasized about kicking my blind horse to death. When I fell asleep (dreaming about kicking my horse to death), it wandered off. I looked over to see it it standing in the water. The water was up to its neck. I think it must have fallen somehow. What kind of dumb horse would walk out into the water and keep going if they knew they were going to die. Thankfully I jumped off the horse before I fell asleep. My arms are weak and I cannot swim. I would have drowned beside that wretched beast. What an awful way to die. Death by association.

What I didn’t tell you before was that I actually rode that horse for quite some time. Through the flat lands. You don’t need eyes if you begin your journey in the prairies. Just wander the right direction. You’ll get there. But as we worked our way diagonally across the hinterland I began smelling salt water. I knew we were getting too far off track and I got nervous. How could I trust a blind horse this close to the ocean. What if I fell asleep? I already told you that I can’t swim. I already told you that it won’t listen to me. I jumped off and began walking beside it. Thats when my mind drifted off and I began thinking about how nice it would be to kick this foolish thing to death.

The tide was rising. At first I left it alone. My mom always said “if you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything at all”. I looked around and realized that my fellow travellers were yelling out, encouraging it to keep walking. Coaching it along as if they were oblivious to the rising sea water. I kept silent. We walked like that for quite a while.

From time to time I would run over and try to guide it away from the water that was rising higher and higher up its legs. Every time I did it would kick me away. A little harder each time. It kept walking. Drifting off toward the ocean. By now the water was up to its neck and the waves were beginning to pick up momentum. My stubborn young horse was no longer walking. It was thrashing wildly against the waves that were beginning to pull it under. There was nothing I could do. How can one man save a full sized horse from drowning itself. Especially if it kind of wants to die?

I eventually allowed myself to cave to my surroundings and joined with my fellow travellers in cheery encouragement. “Keep it up! The best is yet to come!” we would shout. I fully realized that by shouting life into its bleak situation I was positively damning my horse to its watery grave. It was in up to its neck. Besides, it seemed to enjoy hearing the positive reenforcement. It was doing exactly what it needed to be doing, it just needed to keep on walking...further and further out into the ocean. It was nice but it was unhelpful.

I turned around and walked away. I left it standing in its grave. A blind horse isn't worth saving. Useless creatures like blind horses should be encouraged to wander off into the sea where they belong. Where terrible beasts prowl the dark at depths so bleak and depraved that innocent men cannot put images to the tales they’ve been told. Where the terrible waves of culture capsize well constructed personality cults full of innocent people and devour them whole. Where a man can be a fully actualized individual free to choose any and every path laid before him with no consequences or purpose.

Maybe we should euthanize blind horses so they don't hurt innocent riders. Maybe we should educate travellers about the dangers of stubborn, useless handicapped horses. I sure would dislike seeing any innocent soul perish because they jumped on the wrong horse.

— The End —