Tag Archives: HurtsToPost

Journal – Jacking trades up

 

I am afraid of work. I am afraid of art. I am afraid of failure. I am tired of being hurt by my own inadequacies.
I suck. I have to be fine with this. The only solution is to remain in motion.
Jack of all trades master of none
This is me
But when I dedicate ten years to something
I still cannot master it
I begin to wonder why I came
And why I haven’t left yet

It’s easier to jack trades up
Than it is to master them
A master never actually masters his craft
A master only ever gets good
If you want to lead your field you must dedicate everything
Sacrifice everything
And risk still being outdone by somebody
With easy natural talent
Who is fifteen years old.
Leonardo da Vinci bemoaned his lack of knowledge
On his deathbed he faulted himself
For never having learned it all.
He was a perfectionist
He is the standard for half a millennia
And will be for another millennia more
But even he
Was dissatisfied.
Why do we push ourselves
When there is nothing at the top?
Waiting for us is emptiness
The goal is a hollow point
So what is this drive
This need
This greed
I want to kill it
I want to feed it.
So I fight myself fighting it
And get
Nowhere
On either front.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

The Siren

 

I am a sandy beach.
I am wetwater.
I am alive alive alive
And I don’t care who knows it.
I am flaming red hair and toothy grins and purring cats and silliness
I am a wonderful thing, a thing of veins and blood and bones and wild energy
I am eternal, agnostic, atheistic, apotheostic
Knuckling to the floor
Launching myself at the TV screen
An animal
Just an animal

I sing
High clear notes that pierce
Straight to the heart
Any listener might be deceived
Might think me a tremendous soul
Drawn in by my siren song
Silly fools
Cold crayfish and starfish and seahorses
Canned potatoes and processed cheese
Are not enough to feed a siren.
I need someone with meat and red living flesh
I need something that kicks.
I need you.
I can taste your skin
Sweet salt sweat
I can taste your fear
Like stainless steel
I can taste your groan
It ripples down my throat.
I Iive for this,
Your exquisite death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

One step at a time

 

Please note this was written on Sunday. I’m fine now… heh.

 


 

It’s coming around again
Pulling me down into the sludge
Remember me, it hisses.
You nearly forgot me.
You thought I was gone didn’t you.
No, it’s never gone.
But I will never succumb to something so vile.
I am stronger than this thing
That lives in my brain.
I am stronger than anything
That might take up residence there.
Everything
On my terms.
I will not let it have me.
I have it
It does
Not
Have me.
I can weather this storm.
I’ve weathered worse.
I’ll probably have to weather worse again.
It’s just another day
And all I really have to worry about
Is the next step.
Brush teeth.
Wash hands.
Don’t let the inertia pull you down.
Fight.
Fight.
Go for a run.
Try some chocolate.
Get up, go to the bathroom.
It’s not hard
But my god
It’s so hard.
Don’t hurt yourself.
Don’t kill yourself.
You are not at fault.
Don’t drug.
Don’t drink.
Write, write, write, write, write.
Go for a run.
It’s okay to order in.
It’s not that hard.
It’s so hard.
But it’s not hard.
Just focus on the next step.
All day I dream of sleeping
All night I dream of sleeping.
Everything is in black and gray.
Don’t cut yourself.
Don’t swerve the car into traffic.
Don’t follow that mental path.
It’s not about willpower
It’s just about impulse control.
We can do this.
We got this shit in the bag.
It might only last a day
If you’re lucky.
If you run.
If you make dinner.
If you get up and go to work.
If you don’t hurt yourself.
If you get some sleep.
If you take a shower.
Don’t count the time.
Every second is a year.
Just focus on
Doing the laundry.
Feeding the cat
Getting the groceries.
You can do this.
Hang on.
You can do this.
Hang on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

I have tried to be less

 

I have tried to be less
I have tried to be small
Hoping that I could
Not exist at all
I’ve pushed all my valiance toward virtue
But fuck it
Purity
Is an illusion
Perfection ever changes
And God
He’s not coming
I will be pitted, defective, mistaken
I will be whole
Unapologetic
Here I stand
Naked, flawed, beautiful, untouchable
No one can hurt me
Because I know who I am

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 


 

 

 

Failed to write a love story

 

I don’t like romance novels. It’s the one genre I despise. I like a good romance, but not the formula Harlequin stuff. Boring. Easy.
I thought, well, if I’m so cocky, if love stories are so easy, then write one. So… I tried.

Enjoy the failure.

 


 

Daymond looked through the slats of his blinds at the neighbor across the street. She was walking around without a shirt again. Didn’t she think anyone could see her? He turned away. But even after he went to sleep, the image of her followed him into his dreams.

The doorbell rang. Ugh, it was early. He dragged himself from bed, bleary-eyed, pathetic, and answered the door in just his tattered pajama pants.
It was her.
He scooched his lower half behind the door to hide his shameful attire. He always took care in how he dressed, doubly so around her. The pants were an embarrassment.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, and merry Christmas!” she said, her bright morning energy entering his brain through his eyeballs and burning a channel straight to the back of his skull.
She handed him a bag of cookies tied off with a bow. Cute. Distressingly colorful. Dear God what time was it. He stared at the bag and tried to remember what the etiquette was, was it even Christmas? What planet was this again?
“Ah, I’m sorry,” she said, her face falling. “Did I wake you up?”
“Huh? Oh, y…yes… no. It’s fine, I was just getting up anyway.”
“I’ll let you get dressed then. Sorry!”
She gave him another blinding smile and trotted back to her house.
Get dressed?
She thought he’d answered the door nude? She had the gall to treat him like HE was the nudist? He would burn those pants as soon as possible. They were ten times more mortifying than he’d originally thought.
He shut the door and put the cookies on the kitchen table. Cinnamon and ginger fragrance eked through the cellophane. They were so cute.
He reran the conversation in his mind… he’d forgotten to thank her. How rude he’d been!
He cleaned himself up properly, took his time. Showered, shaved, brushed, put on one of his nicer shirts. She wouldn’t think him a scruffy nudist after this.
Knocking on her door was scarier than he’d expected.
“Just a minute!” She called through the door.
When she did answer, she was dripping wet, in a towel. Just out of the shower. She smelled like coconut and jasmine. The towel was only barely big enough to cover her generous assets.
“I, uh… sorry, was this a bad time?”
“Not at all!” She replied. She looked genuinely happy to see him.
Her breasts were smashed into perfect cleavage under the weight of her arm. Her legs were so long, so long, and they ran all the way up to the edge of the towel… oh dear God. He was getting a little too happy to see her, as well. Why was she always parading like this? Wasn’t she cold? Didn’t she realize what she was doing??
“Thank you. For the cookies! I realized I’d forgotten to say thank you.”
Don’t look down, don’t draw attention to it, hold her gaze. He had to get out of here quick before she noticed. At least his pants were the loose kind. But what was that draft?
She noticed. Her jaw dropped.
The draft… he looked down. He’d neglected to zip his fly. All that care in dressing and he’d left his zipper open. Or maybe it’d come down as he walked?
But that wasn’t the worst of it. Mr. Happy had poked his head out and wanted to thank her, too.
His face bright red, he hastily tucked it all back in and down and zipped everything into place. But the damage had been done.
“That was an accident, I swear! I didn’t know…” what? That his fly was open? That she’d answer the door in full sex kitten mode?
He choked on his words. Never again could he talk to her. He couldn’t even look her in the eye. He was going to be her #MeToo story forever.
In shame he fled her front porch and hurried back to his house.
“Wait!” She called.
To his horror, she ran out of the door after him in her towel. Everything bounced.
“Wait!” She caught up to him in the middle of the street. “It’s not a big deal, really.”
She got off on it. The sexual power. What else could explain her behavior?
He still couldn’t look at her.
“Did you try the cookies?” She asked. Was she actually trying to start a new conversation?
“Um, not yet… they smelled good. Listen, you’re not dressed, don’t you want to go inside?”
She looked confused. “Oh, I have a towel on, it’s fine. I just didn’t want you to leave like that.”
“You don’t think I’m some kind of pervert?”
She beamed another one of her smiles at him. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Oookay. I’m going home now. Nice knowing you.”
“Wait?”
“What FOR?” That came out harsher than he’d intended, but this was torture.
“Come back into my house. Try a cookie.”
“Wait… you are the pervert here? You’ve been trying to seduce me all along!”
“There are cookies at my house…”
She grabbed him by his shirt front and led him back into her house. He was never heard from again.

 


 

Well, I don’t know much but I know that’s not love. A distinct lack of sweetness, haha. Awkward boners tend to overwhelm a romance. Well, I’ll just have to keep trying until I get one right. Let that be a lesson to me.

I still don’t like dime romance novels though.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

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