Freak

May 21, 2008

I’m such a freak.

I thought you were happy.
I thought you had a girlfriend
and you had money
and that made you happy.
I was wrong.
I’m such a freak.

I thought you were happy
and I thought I envied you,
or perhaps I really did.
But not anymore.
I was blind.
I’m such a freak.

We went to a pub.
You drank.
I didn’t.
You said I was missing out.
Maybe you’re right.
I thought you were like me.
I’m such a freak.

Peer pressure.
Fuck it.
Fuck you all!
Hate me!
I hate you too.
I’m such a freak.

Every time I’m supposed to be happy,
I think of some part of my life which is not OK.
I thought,
I’m such a freak,
I don’t know how to be happy.
But you don’t know either.
Oh wait,
you do.
C2H5OH.
But that doesn’t work for me.
I’m such a freak.

The smoke stung my eyes
and I felt like I wanted to cry.
Because I wasn’t like you.
Because I never could be.
Because I felt more alone than ever.
I’m such a freak.

I don’t understand.
Show me an adult that’s happy.
Really happy,
not just a mask
like you.
Or me.
Is this the big lesson in life?
The final revelation?
“Congratulations, you’ve come to the end of the line.
There’s nothing for you to see here.
Now you die.”
Congratulate me,
I’m such a freak.

Right now I’m sitting on a chair.
My breath is shallow.
My butt hurts.
And sad music is in my ears.
And I’m writing this freakish poem.
Which is not even a poem
but some kind of hate speech
or a confession
or a cry for help.
I’m such a freak.

And maybe I’ll delete everything I wrote
or maybe I’ll throw my laptop out the window
or maybe I’ll throw myself.
Then maybe I’ll somehow stop being
such a freak.

Clint Mansell is a genius.
And I’m thinking of a drama.
Someone else’s drama.
And how easy it is to feel compassion.
And how hard it is to express it.
And what good does compassion do,
when everybody else just makes fun of you.
(Nineteen Minutes taught you nothing.)
I feel like tapping you on the shoulder
and saying
“Don’t worry –
they’re all idiots.”
But I can’t do it.
And maybe that’s not even true.
Like you,
I’m such a freak.

An idiot and his “social skills”
and his way to laugh loudly
go a longer way
than a freak with his compassion.
This world is so unfair
and it makes me want to cry.
I’m such a freak.

I didn’t know you smoked.
Is it wrong to hate you for doing it?
I feel like I’ve been lied to.
But I saw you
simulating pleasure
as you drew in smoke.
Then throwing your head back
and simulating pleasure again
as you opened your mouth wide
to let the smoke out.
Eyes narrowed.
A superior smirk on your face
as you tapped the thin cigar
(I always thought they were for women)
upon the ashtray.
It was so fake.
Aren’t you disgusted?
Are you all blind?
Or am I
such a freak?

I know.
I do that too.
I try to look cheerful on the outside
and normal
and composed,
when inside my guts are boiling.
That’s why I’m so afraid
of showing my real self,
because everyone will hate me then.
And I’ll be even more
of a freak.

That’s why if you meet my eyes
and I don’t know you
and I’m not somewhere familiar,
you’ll likely see anger on my face.
Because anger is easy to muster.
Because anger is better than fear.
No I cannot afford to show fear.
Or you’ll all know
that I’m such a freak.

That’s why I have S.A.D.
(or at least I think so)
in a mild form
and I never told anybody.
Because that would be
scientific proof
that I’m such a freak.

That’s why I jump if you touch my back.
That’s why I want to hide my face all the time.
That’s why I don’t have a cellphone
and I dread calling you up.
That’s why if you point at me
and laugh
I’ll probably swallow it
and get out as fast as I can
and feel bad all day
and listen to Katatonia.
Like a freak.

That’s why girls are a different species
and I don’t have a definition for “friend”
and like Joel in Eternal Sunshine,
I fall in love with every woman I see
who shows me the least bit of attention.
I’m only brave
when I am alone.
And books are my closest friends.
What a freak.

But I digress.
(Or maybe a digression
is the best way
to make you understand
this hate speech
or confession
or whatever,
and that’s why
I’m going to make this sentence
longer by three words:
one two three.)
This was about you,
and how you make me feel.
I don’t care if you read this.
In fact, I hope you do.
I’m not sure why.
I’m such a freak.

You drew the line some place else.
And I don’t blame you
as long as it makes you happy
(whatever that means).
In fact you almost convinced me
that you’re right and I’m wrong
like so many other times.
But I never learn,
because I’m such a freak.

I won’t do the accounting for you
because I’m sober.
Fuck you!
It feels good to tell people to fuck off,
it gives me power.
That’s where I’ve been missing out.
I never knew the power of the middle finger.
I never thought I could actually choose.
You freed me in a way.
I’m such a proud freak now.


Note #1: I’ve just had a conversation which made me unable to write this any further. But since this does reflect my thoughts at a certain moment in time, I want to publish it as is before I decide to delete it.

Note #2: If you feel that I’ve personally mentioned you in the text above, please understand that nobody except you knows that. So don’t feel threatened.


Neterminat Uitat Expirat

May 15, 2008

Parfumul cald al unei veri
S-a dus;
Azi visul gloriei de ieri
I-apus.

În van am încercat mai sus
Să sar.
Şi tot ce mi-a rămas e-un gust
Amar.

Oraşul tot, asfalt topit
Şi fum;
Plonjează în nemărginit
Acum.

Luna în templu s-a ivit;
Adorm.
Trăiesc ce încă n-am trăit
În somn.

Din cerul singur, dureros
De alb
Se prăbuşeşte-un luminos
Catarg.

Un soare nou rege va fi
Mâine.
Nici zeii nordici nu vor şti
Cine.

Miticul lanţ nu a cedat
Nicicând.
Şi lumea asta nu-i decât
Un gând.


Cerc Închis

March 20, 2008

Vuia în jurul meu cerul de noapte
Când din octava lui m-am prăbuşit.
Pupile largi mi-au amintit că am pleoape,
Şi-n adăpostul lor n-am mai simţit nimic.

Trecut-au zile-ntregi, sau poate clipe,
Stele-au căzut, sau alte noi au răsărit;
Cu ace în plămâni, cu mâinile rănite,
Cu faţa-n glod, dar totuşi m-am trezit.

De furii negre prins, am blestemat
Toţi neuronii care mă dureau,
Şi-n roşie ruşine, aprig am jurat
Că nici în opt vieţi aripi nu mai vreau.

Să-l văd încă o dată nu puteam,
Înaltul cel din care am căzut.
Ca să îl uit, numai în jos priveam,
Dar în băltoace, cerul l-am văzut.


Tonight

February 18, 2008

This
is my favorite time:
when the sun is down,
and the heat is gone,
and the night is young
and velvety.

Under the street lamps,
sharper are the shadows,
greener the leaves,
closer every sound.

Lights,
like blobs on an ancient film,
remind me
of what I forgot
when my age had a single digit.
Then,
all I had to do was
want
to move my hand,
and it would move.
What I want,
what I think,
I have.
I wish I could remember that.

Shadows
curl
at the edge of my vision.
They call to me,
but in full view
I find them still.
I wish I could relive that magic.

The green
is of a different kind
at night.
It’s alive
and hard
and raw.
Like I used to be
before I forgot who I was.
I wish I could remember that.

The city sleeps
and I can hear a leaf
turning to watch me –
an intruder on her silence.
I wish I hadn’t woken you up.

But the shadows are sharper,
and the green is greener,
and the sound is closer.
I am awake
in this collage
with layered colors,
clumsy lines
and muffled sounds.
And I have but shadows
and green
and sound
to show tonight to.


Acrosticism

January 29, 2008

acro-flat.png

Frowning with echoes of hysterical laughter, exhausted by sleep. Lonesome raven in a sea of snow. Numb wings gleaming black. Feathers ruffled by urban noise. Cursed lethargy. Katatonia. Eyes fixed on the sun, drowning upwards.


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