which is it? a long life or a quick visit? wrong timing but right rhyming makes a song whining like sick physics when a grip's twisted and it's been missed with the grease that seems sporty and it keeps squeaking but it's me speaking need some w-d forty i'm just a wheel that can't deal with feelings congealing around me so i squeal spinning and turn grinning like "what win could that sound be" i find founding foundational fountains of fun cause crying when trying to fly close to the sun but the wax never wanes so tho painful my fate i re-string my wings, i don't even wait

ah sometimes i write one of these and it's such a shame because it's got a lot of potential but i've just made it too like, acutely obtuse?

fuck i'm doing it right now "acutely obtuse," lol shut up

it's confusing.

It's like trying to read someone else's private language.

stylistically, structurally, i still think it's pretty awesome. The weaving opening settling into a more predictable scheme of inner rhymes works pretty good i think.

but the content is, i think, probably pretty hard to parse the way i've phrased things

i don't remember this one very well, but reading it through it's just saying life feels too long and too short all at once, and i'm just complaining in poem form to distract myself, the squeaky wheel who thinks their squealing is a pretty song

and then at the end it's a little clearer (i think, i hope, idk) that often creating or finding new Things That Consume Me get ruined because they, y'know, consume me, but i always seem to have the wherewithal to find another Interest so i just keep doing it all over again without pausing to reflect - somewhat intentionally, because of how life is too long and too short, both of which realities low-key terrify me, sure. But the point is, i keep getting up and trying again

idk it needs.... increased accessibility for intrinsic readership, shit, i'm doing it still, i mean, like, y'know. To be written in such a way that people can understand it.

like, i cannot for the LIFE of me remember wtf "the grease that seems sporty" refers to, and i wrote the damn thing.

Every time i ask myself about it, my dumb brain says (and i'm translating here) "yeah, you know, it's like chalk dust for climbing, but the opposite and with old spice vibes" brain you big idiot what does that mean?... ikd, lube? engine oil?

like clearly the metaphor is that a painful twisting causes the squeaky wheel, and this could be made easier with some kind of ease of friction (i.e. i would complain less if my life was easier.. see how boring that sounds compared to "it keeps squeaking but it's me speaking i need some wd40"?)

ANYway, idkwtf "the grease that seems sporty" means

i gotta keep it fun, but also, the concepts gotta be legible.

hope is a skill

hope is a weapon you are trained to wield

favourite additions

I have this coping candle flame

that flickers, Hope it’s simple name,

but tho i truly need its light

I keep it shuttered every night -

the winds that blow through me are cold,

the whispered wick a trick to hold,

and while the fire burns devout..

I fear, exposed, it might go out.

So while I have this Hope, it’s true,

it never helps to light my view;

I keep it safely tucked inside -

so, blinded, then, I too must hide.

But deadly dark the night, and cold -

with naught but Hope to guide and warm;

so time to risk that which I hold,

and trust my candle in the storm.

actually, I think it’s relevant to the op for me to note that the above poem came at a midpoint in my healing process.

The following is a poem from earlier in the process, which i think is interesting to contrast with the above to show the purposeful work and growth that giving yourself hope can take. I’ve bolded the most relevant lines to compare with the piece above, showing how far I came between the two

some days are dimmer, bare glimmer, one spark -

faint flickering flame dares dance in the dark;

it’s a hope of a hope, the ghost of illusion

that’s haunting my heart, this die hard delusion,

no faith in our safety I sing of, this song

is made up of maybe: maybe I’m wrong.

Maybe I’m wrong when I only see doom

in the strings that determine things there on the loom.

it might not be right, as I do, to believe that

these failures are the only true deed I succeed at;

and when wondering whether the world or it won’t?

I feel I know which – but maybe I don’t.

This small spark in the dark upon which I run

isn’t Hope, it’s just hope that I’m wrong that there’s none.

hell I’m wrong so often we ought to expect it

so… there’s a chance if I stand, it will be corrected

it took a lot of effort and time, but I went from “maybe i’m wrong that there is no hope” to “i have a hope but it seems like it’s too fragile to trust in this wild world” and now I’m at “I feel strong flashes of hope like a strobe light and I’m trying to use it to light my way” Soon may it be a steady beam of light.

the world got small all self contained while the wealthy ask who the hell complained so we tip toe tap on these boards at night after battling bills ‘cause there’s more to fight. Each day brings struggle, double down your bet; save seconds for play once you pay your debt – but we side eye nightly who takes our checks, hoping next day might be for breaking necks. So bless each heart of the people bleeding feeding cash so fast to the evil’s eating; when it comes at last to the turn and switch we will light that match go and burn the rich! ‘Til then we’ll spend this time together – laugh with each other if we can whenever, while we’re knowin’ revoltin’s what we pray for hopin’ it‘s the option we got when communication’s open

what armor guards these hearts of ours, what spark have we these darkened hours? When we dream free these keys are used to show shared hope, we cope amused by laughing, pass distracting memes roll rick by quick, gifs, pics and things; this patient toe tap so divine: we don’t waste time, we hold the line. we keep it open, we mean to know when these demons think heart beats are slowin’, they circle move in for the kill; they think we won’t, we know we will: show we’re united, each boy is knighted, each girl a savage queen who’ll fight it’s same as always, but now we’re stronger this web connects, each strand grows longer; we’ll topple towers, that power will cease, big brother in love with his pet police; we just want peace they force these battles - but riders need mounts more than horses need saddles 

this morning

wait, I totally have something for this, hold on.. ah here it is, wrote it when I was feeling, like, this exact thing IN her territory there's no safety anymore in the morning, the night or the noon, and no sooner have we moved from where her sad makes my sorrow grow to where her laugh and her smile show so when I glance out from this trance to where the dancing is, fancy this then it's actually worse when I get to the place where her face screams light like high beams might and the laughter sounds like joy exploded- know that I used to make her laugh so naturally.. cause the slow grin & know when to throw in some jokin', so both her eyes brighten from foot sole to chest soul 'til my whole heart's enlightened. Back then I might win such jackpot prizes, but crackpot signage in my mind says that my thought bank's not the spot for exchange in such coinage- it's pointless and the point is there may be no location to stay in where I'm safe from loosing my balance without liberal libation- like sailors from sea swaying sauced to the station: too used to the tides to ride rock's gravitation. So I'm waiting and patient for the poison to pass, poised to repost from this beach where I’m cast, swear to miss not the sea... ground beneath feet at last.