PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Mondays.

Mother fuckin' Mondays.

This is my lunch break and I am using it to turn the valve, to release some pressure I've built underneath my ribcage. If I don't, I fear what will happen. Although to be honest, I KNOW what would happen were I to keep it all contained: nothing. Because I'm a loud mouth full of outcry and visceral impotency. I wish violence on myself and others; I wish to DO violence to myself and others. I wish to leap from the window behind me, for death and for witnesses; for others to see how miserable I am and to hear the disgusting sound of my body as it turns to puddle and powder against the concrete three stories beneath us.

I am becoming my Father.

When wondering from where this negativity could have originated, I can only look to him and his absolute and dauntless dread for any and all coming weeks. Nothing takes priority over how much he is not looking forward to what lies ahead. This sentiment confuses the rest of my family, but I've come to understand his perspective: he hates his life. He isn't happy and nothing in his life brings him whatever satisfaction he so craves. He sees years of endless repetition, of vacuous and meaningless gestures given to people with whom he shares no mutual love or respect. He sees endless facades, repeated arguments which have no possible conclusion and difficulties that spawn due to other people's stupidity. He wanted something else, and yet he, himself, cannot seem to establish what that something could have possibly been.

Maybe I'm assuming too much.

I've never made an attempt on my own life or drawn my own blood. I have beaten rough services bare-knuckled to cause pain and enjoy punching myself in the guts when I work out, because it feels like I deserve it. I'm an engine of misery, pointless misery. I make myself and others so unhappy. Why can I not make something useful of myself? Why can't my writing be consistent? Why couldn't my love for being an artist have remained? Why must I spend every day of my life simply tolerating? Why can't I embrace myself?

I want to get up and walk away from this cubicle and never speak to another one of my coworker's ever again. I want to be fired and never return. I never want to set foot in another office, or factory. I never want to leave home. I want to stay there and inhale smoke until I go stupid and numb. I want to lift a clumsy fist clasped around something cumbersome, and bring it down on each limb, smashing and drawing pools of blood until I'm able to depart for good.

I'm so incredibly weak, so full of hot air. I'll never do anything significant. I can only petition faith for an unseen, unheard spot of wrath - something to take me away without my own conscious involvement. Seeing my own words makes me feel ill. Seeing those that have rejected me makes me feel silly, like a child whose been told to remove his hand from the cookie jar.

What is the point of me?