Tag Archive | depression

Exit Methodologies

The Brightest Way

A black man wouldn’t hang himself. That would be like
Jewish ones suicidal wanting to be gassed.
Some will hack at their wrists. Others go by the gun.
When it comes right down to it, to get the job done
So that one doesn’t fuck up, it has to be fast…
Like electrons – not slow as in taking a hike.

My perception of self and all that I perceive…
Indeed everything I know or thought that I did
Dissipates into nothingness. I know but pain.
Logic dictates remaining would be inhumane
To the rest of hell’s residents. Heaven forbid
That I go while unnoticed as I alone grieve.

Some use cigarette burn marks to fuck with their skin.
I mean that in a kind way. I would do the same.
But I’ve fucked with this website for too many years.
It’s not quite as effective. I’ve shed enough tears
Speaking out but not one God Damned person I claim
As a point of connection, much to my chagrin.

A poet I’ll still call myself even as I
In one last burst defiant to stark nothingness
That this world thing and all I know is and always
Has been and will be. How dare that I covet praise!
I’m a drop in a strange bucket and nothing less
Than a weary old nigger just wanting to die.

On Beating The Blues

Endless Cycles Of Gloom

An old man on a job search is death wish engaged
At full throttle straight into the darkness of hell.
Able bodied I am with an excellent mind
But this world doesn’t see that. In essence, it’s blind
To what I have to offer. I’m just a hard sell
To the age of the phone app. Indeed I’m outraged.

But who gives a bat’s dropping among hell’s elite?
Having spent the last few weeks as a prostitute
On the road and in offices for interviews
That upset and degrade me, I’ll not self-abuse
As I sense that’s the intent because they can’t shoot
Me for sport or for pleasure. Still I’m in defeat.

Sent way out to the boondocks through Amazon Flex
With a carload of packages on gravel roads
With no God Damned thing guiding me but a phone app
Then the fucking phone dies. The whole day’s turned to crap
I bent over and puckered for copious loads
Of the dark seed of Satan in virtual sex.

I’d take this as a joke played on me with a smile
And forget like a bad dream what’s happened to me
If I were a lot younger – not old and depressed.
Vows I’ve made to my doctors were not made in jest
But when push comes to shove one would have to agree
That to ask for a breastfeeding isn’t my style.

I cannot be employed, yet Magic I create.
I have many fine talents and education
That I’m still paying off after decades by now.
This life hates my damned guts. This fact I can allow
To solidify suicidal decision.
But for now, I’ve decided to nourish my hate.

When I Have Fear

The Illusion Transcendent

I have fear unbecoming a creature of God
That I still may have many years left to endure
Bloody hell on this wretched earth. My humanness
Is a curse – not a blessing. I know not success
To be worth my pursuing it. Quite insecure
Is the thin thread I dangle from. This life is flawed.

When I fear that my thinking will go on this way
To the point of considering ways to check out…
And when some reassurance that I here belong
Having made life a failure by being so wrong
In relating to rightness does not come about
It’s doubtful I’ll be here by the end of the day.

When my guts choke what feeds them perpetually
And their out of phase rhythm defies natures role…
When complaining to doctors leads to the dead end –
Absolute like a brick wall, deeper I descend
To that dark, choking space. I’m not one to console.
If God would deem it worthy, I would cease to be.

Thought becomes intervention. The things that I’ve tried
And failed at most horrendously are stepping stones.
“You just need to hang in there…” That’s so God Damned trite,
But this prison has strange rules that I cannot fight.
These insults are acceptable to my weak bones.
With my life’s final chapter I am satisfied.

The Real Me

At The Brink Of Awakening

The performance of someone who seems to be me
Is audaciously tricky that it would attempt
To tempt me with the promise of full possession
Of what I have already, yet it has but none
Of the pure essence of me. The ego unkempt
On a world of stage acting has such need to be.

Its craving for acceptance renders it unseen.
If it lets down its armor this may not be true.
Ancient is the fine art that the ego knows well.
Its sole purpose for existing is to compel
Itself and perceived others to perform on cue.
If they don’t then the actor can be rather mean.

What it manifests matters but not a whole lot.
It may take reaching great heights to then realize
That it finds no contentment. So does it matter
That all hopes, dreams, and wishes surely must occur?
Both viewers and projectors are what are the eyes
Running a second story with another plot.

The Great Powerful Wizard Of Oz needs a rest,
As its body and mind grow weary of the act
That it thinks it must maintain to make a big name
Of itself on some world stage. It is not the same
As the one who is nameless. Staying in contact
With that one ensures me that my acting is blessed.

The Reason For Madness

The Origin of All Mental Illness

Many go to psychologists thinking they’re ill.
Doctors know they aren’t crazy. They’re simply confused.
People’s lives become so complex that they’d prefer
Being dead to escape the pain that they suffer.
Life gets too complicated, then folks are accused
Of some mental imbalance and loss of free will.

Because it causes suffering if not controlled,
Inundation of detail we want to avoid
At all cost, as it, on its own, grows and mutates.
Normal people end up with too much on their plates.
The Complexity Problem indeed has destroyed
Many otherwise happy lives… And it gets old.

When a few known catastrophes are added to –
Like the loss of a loved one, your home, and your job –
You may find it unbearable to carry on
‘Til the next damned moment, let alone the new dawn.
Grown adults become children. We break down and sob
Out of sheer desperation while feeling like poo.

So, just like the balloon blown up too much will burst
At the point where it’s weakest, we are quite the same.
The cure for all complexity is found within
Where the self knows simplicity. There I begin
To release the anxiety and the self-shame
 Because as things are going, we ain’t seen the worst.

The Saddest Lines

The Story Unending

I could write some sad lines with this sorry assed life,
And it don’t take too damned much to jerk myself off.
In some ways it’s a blessing perfecting the fool
So that love has a purpose to earn ridicule
From the sensible masses. The dog whistle cough
Is a thickness I cut through with my psychic knife.

In her heart she defeats me, and I know not why
In the midst of eternity now should occur.
 Incremental dissolving of love not cared for
And forever unspoken I cannot ignore.
How I long for the sweetness of things as they were
Is the reason I can’t go for a second try.

Some unknown evil spirit has occupied me.
What has taken my feelings infiltrates the void
Where my heart felt at home once. The unwanted guest
Is the hermit made harlot at one with my nest.
Will I get myself back without being destroyed?
Time I have plenty of. I shall just wait and see.

I can write through the darkness as if it were light.
Make believe is an artform the whore understands.
Illusion may expel her or turn her into
A benevolent entity. These lines are few
And the last to be offered. Survival demands
That I learn, then move on with improvement in sight.

Rebound From Failure

To Err Is To Learn

Before Saturn’s return to the place in the sky
Where it was at my birth, I have already failed.
As my hopes and dreams vanish, the worst of my fears
Is that time may have run out. I’ve wasted some years
Derelict in my duties. This fog has prevailed
A long while undetermined. May I wonder why?

“What do you mean exactly,” the wise one will ask,
Knowing that all have screwed up by thirty or so.
What would be recommended is diving within
To dredge up all that which I can only call sin.
I may then write it down because it’s good to know.
I could make it a rather significant task.

Documenting in detail the ways I’ve gone wrong
Is an exercise not only in good hygiene.
A component inherent is spiritual.
Any plan then constructed is beneficial.
If I stick to it, in time, a change will be seen
In my life as a whole, although it may take long.

Little things I can focus on – work I can do
Of a trivial nature. As I complete each,
Incremental progress is its own just reward.
I’ll do best if I keep some self-loving onboard.
Hanging fruit exponential is well within reach.
Failure is something everyone gets to go through.

I’m Done With The World…

Resolute Abandon

Closing my eyes on this world and everybody,
Then, they’re all dead and gone. Do I dare make that so?
Or do I reach out willingly to those in need?
From my own human nature I want to be freed.
Many things I have done, but I’ve nothing to show
That can make any difference others can see.

I hope this is illusory, at least in part.
Were I not of some value I could not exist.
Everyone has a place and their work to be done.
Doing something worthwhile could be barrels of fun.
No more should I gain from it. The point would be missed.
Selflessness in one’s service is true to the heart.

Worthy I am as others are of loving grace.
In the depths of compassion is where it is found.
I may be disillusioned by current events
And prospects for a future that makes human sense.
Can I let the momentum start messing around
With my health and wellbeing? I’d be a nut case.

Four o’clock in the evening depicts my life’s day…
Sailing into a sunset that’s much prettier
And not nearly as visible as,say, high noon.
Before it sets completely my life I’ll attune
To the needs of my species as I would prefer
Rather than giving up before sailing away.

Getting Focused

Clarity In Each Blink of the Eye

Intellect turned against me; my focus unclear…
Psychological processes have more value
Than the ones existential. One worm of ill thought
In the mind become weakened welcomes the onslaught
Of disgust with humanity. What can I do
For the health of my psyche that I hold most dear?

Fleeting thoughts and emotions consume my life force
If I don’t pay attention to wonderful things
That are happening everywhere not in my head.
If I gave life more notice I’d feel much less dread.
Everything in the universe and in me sings
Of our interconnectedness with divine source.

I’m too full of myself. Can I say that to me?
I’d resent it from someone else. If I’m in need,
Then others have advantage and too much control
Over what I experience. My only goal
Is to be more of my best and indeed exceed
What I’m worth as an asset to society.

Suffering is a process just as existence.
One takes place in the mind; the other, everywhere.
The moment of awakening can be sustained
Through preventive self-therapy. I can be trained
To become who I am. Should my mental health care
Draw the worst from within me? It shouldn’t make sense.

There is substantial evidence scientific
And medical pointing to proof that we all are
Better at what we’re doing when we feel our best.
Consciously the decision to not feel depressed
Is the one I must make that cannot leave a scar
On the soul of this sensitive lone lunatic.

Let Go!

It's A Flush

Deep spiritual cleansing is done at year’s end.
The completion of one cycle welcomes the new
With profound expectation that life may improve.
What on God’s green earth does it take for me to move
Past all past reawakening and get through to
That which is of most essence devoid of pretend?

In the past year I’ve learned how to write fairly well.
My opinion is fantasy to the degree
That I rate recognition. Others do much less
And gain love and respect. If contempt I express
Then the karma created cannot let me see
The next year without clinging to the past year’s hell.

 Learning how to let go of the life I create
Is a process encumbered by urge to sort out
What I need to get rid of that’s holding me back
From a possible future of feeling less lack.
Memories reoccurring bedevil all doubt
That my humble existence is governed by fate.

Nothing has any meaning, and life makes no sense
Unless others come part way. But if not at all,
Then it’s all up to me to survive and to thrive
In apparent aloneness yet fully alive.
May the gift that I offer some day not be small
Yet my growth in this new year be strong and immense.

Burned Out And Depressed

In the Heat of Stress

I can’t practice my presence because I’m burned out.
Around people I often find I get depressed.
I’m having difficulty and notice no change
Toward a better direction. Why am I so strange
That I can’t take direction nor can I digest
Simple teachings of spirit? I suffer in doubt.

The declarative statements that come from the mind
In an unending torrent are only concepts
That create a false story which I then believe.
If I identify with it I won’t achieve
The presence that eludes me. My frequent missteps
Indicate there is progress. My journey is kind.

Statements made can be tested by getting among
Other people, then practicing being aware
Of the body’s sensations and what it perceives
And each breath of fresh air that the body receives.
This is just the beginning of personal care
That will keep myself healthy and forever young.

Starting with the reality now in my face
That requires my attention, I must come awake
To the fact that I’m consciousness separate from
What appear to be problems I must overcome.
Can I look at the story and know that it’s fake
And become more enlightened in natural grace?

Keep It To Yourself

Inhibition of Emotional Release

Emotions, when unpleasant, can sever the soul
From connection to all that can give it relief.
When they’re kept to oneself loneliness creeps inside.
There is ample confusion that faith is denied
That things will start to improve. There is no belief
That something not accounted for can make one whole.

I could just cut them off if they cause so much grief
That I can’t function normally. Yet if I do
They will surface again in ways much more severe.
If I share them with someone then I might appear
To be hopelessly troubled. And it may be true.
I would hope that my suffering now will be brief.

It is tough to feel burdened, lonely, and depressed
When such feelings as joy and bliss memory holds.
No control do I have over things I once had,
And whatever life shows to me makes me more sad.
I do not have a stake in just how life unfolds.
For right now I have nothing but pain to digest.

The byproduct of waste is what I must release.
It becomes grossly toxic and causes distress
In the lower gut chakra. If I hold it in
I will suffer a breakdown. That would be a sin.
Psychic irregularity I must address
As it happens or else I will never know peace.

Trivial Pursuits

Positive and Friendly; Appreciating Harmony

It’s seen simply as trivial… all that I do
From sun up ‘til sundown and the time in between.
Though to me it’s important, and I shouldn’t care
That the gift that I offer is not meant to share
With any but this troubled self. Why am I seen
As the fool who does nothing? Am I ugly too?

If folks took me more seriously would I be
In this hellish predicament victimized so?
I suspect that the answer is all up to me.
I am friendly to no one because none can see
I’ve a genuine purpose. It just doesn’t show.
I’ve become quite embittered, yet who can agree?

Someone started a joke in the form of a game.
Too late into it I find no reason to laugh.
Maybe I’m not supposed to. I feel I should cry
While awaiting complete withdrawal when I die.
I came here not to play, so the best epitaph
Is a statement of substance to honor my shame.

People don’t want to know me or read what I write
Because I’m lacking something. Clearly I’ve no clue.
It remains a big secret to me yet it’s fun
To the world and its players. For me there is none.
I feel I’m being punished, but what did I do
To deserve the aloneness? Why am I uptight?

When depression evolves into anger it’s seen
As a worthwhile improvement. I’ve given up hope
That getting any better can do me much good.
I’ve been at life a long time. Its blatant falsehood
Leaves no meaning where I can successfully cope
With abject isolation in my sick routine.

Take The Time

Emotional Confusion

If existence is hopeless what sense does it make
To reach out to another when I’m put on hold
And rebuked by technology? Life is too cruel.
There are so many sources who all have a tool
For reducing true spirit to things that are cold.
It’s a thin line of crisis. I fear it will break.

You can all handle challenge. I Must Take The Time
To submerge into darkness to know what is there.
It’s the last place to find and to feel anything.
The dull ache I will tolerate if it can bring
But a glimmer of hope. Truly life isn’t fair.
It’s instead a fine portrait of hell in its prime.

Compromising is futile. No tender have I.
To negotiate living I come unprepared.
Possibility haunts me as I weigh the pain
Of the distant disaster I lived through in vain.
As I’m stuck firm in place with my soul running scared
Unresolved ideation is but a faint cry.

Mood Ride

Usual Benefit In Conflict

Swinging is the momentum prescribed by the mood.
It provides ample solace and blends out the flow
Of wide-ranging emotions and nature’s relief
From a world I can’t face now. I have firm belief
That refreshing my consciousness helps me to grow.
Until I’m feeling right again, I must seclude.

Some days can be a rough ride. Others… not so much.
Sensitive to the obvious and subtle things,
I reflect on events as they’re damned to occur
While I’m freed from exalting the life I prefer.
What a bright new horizon aloneness time brings!
What my spirit requires is that I keep in touch.

Seeking total detachment is hardly worthwhile
Since I am here to live life while fully awake
To partake of the drama as part of each day.
My solution is functional. It helps me stay
Somewhat more in alignment. The ride that I take
Gives me instant contentment and often a smile.

Subjective Concerns

Profound Dissolution

Should my work become viral… that fever ensue?
This delightful delirium dared to be caused
Is the dream of my ego. What value have I?
At best, I’m called a wordsmith. Can that satisfy
What I feel I deserve? Should my effort be paused
Due to lack of ‘the basics’ as well as a clue?

What if I get the illness and can’t pay my bills?
Will my creditors know then that I do exist?
And should I lose my life, do I dream of that now?
Contemplation eternal is soothing somehow.
If survival accurses me should I persist
In this thing that I’m doing? The thought gives me chills.

In contempt of a rational means of access
To the ways of the spirit, have I made the choice
To be languid in leisure? Today, as it seems,
I am not quite in touch with my most cherished dreams.
There’s no reason to prove to the world I’ve a voice.
I can suck my own dick. There’s no crowd to impress.

My subjective concerns are not only my own.
Fear becomes human nature and how it evolves
Through processions of eons. My dark memories
Of past blunders while soulless cannot give me ease
Nor can they honor daylight. Consciousness dissolves
Every dream ever spat upon. I live alone.

Negative Conclusions

Awaiting the Verdict

Learn To Cry! Your prescription disqualifies me
From the positive outlook evasive to some.
Is my vision distorted? Do you know the cause?
Can the clue to what is now be found in what was?
Stick a dick in my sick mind. See if you will cum.
Fear and doubt plague the present. How can I be free?

Try to find some compassion? Untether my heart
From the grief, pain and sorrow to others I’ve caused
In my fight to be righteous in my twisted ways.
Give me hope for the future. Bullshit me with praise.
Seeking outside connection, true progress is paused.
If I must go on living, I need a new start.

My conclusions are baseless while dwelling within
This homemade dissolution I may well deserve.
Hopelessness is an option. I need but one more.
May my life provide many that I can explore?
Negativity teaches, if I have the nerve,
To prepare for its lesson then let it begin.

Do I Need A Co-Writer?

Programmed Terminal Distraction

Hanging on past my world worth, I seek not my own
Group of lighthearted losers. Alone I decay.
One misspoken raw truth or a social faux pas
Once a day should not get me involved with the law
Nor should it take my birthright to be here away.
Nature does still support me in its Twilight Zone.

Gnats don’t help with my writing. They get in the way.
I’ll assume that it’s personal then take offense.
Their obscene aeronautics hijacks attention
Even if there’s no light source. They do this for fun.
They are faster than I, so it makes perfect sense
That for such a transgression I shall make them pay.

While in flight, I can spray them with something that burns.
Rubbing alcohol works well. A delicate mist
Knocks them flat on their asses. I take much delight
Because now they’re so dazed they can’t put up a fight.
When they start fucking with me, I cannot resist
Brushing up on my mayhem against all concerns.

As they frantically gasp and flail after they fall
I now master the last laugh and take back some pride.
As I watch them grow weaker, I’ll spray them again.
They’ve messed with the wrong creature among insane men.
As I see that they’re hopeless, I feel good inside.
After that, I will kill them. My wrath isn’t small.

Do I draw such contempt from those of my own kind?
Do I act out in consequence of being cursed
As a highflying nuisance disrupting the show?
That I know nothing of it causes me to grow.
Someday I’ll cease my wars, but right now I’m submersed
In one of my own making. It’s all in the mind.

Development Of A Loser

Origin of Enigma

A thought is like four heartbeats abreast on a line.
At least that’s how my loser mind thinks things should be.
Anapestic Tetrameter is what you see.
But alas, folks would swear it’s not coming from me.
And it doesn’t take much for most folks to agree
That if someone else wrote this, then it would be fine.

I do sound like a loser. Self-pity is one
Of my grossest achievements. I can do that well.
What reward do I get from it? All is in vain.
Yet I continue doing it. Am I insane?
We are all of earth’s substance and part of its spell.
Would it please a sore loser if he were outdone?

How do losers begin life? …Perhaps in a shell
Where the world remains outside ‘til it barges in
And disturbs peace contained there because that’s the way…?
Are there too many losers with too much to say?
If you had just ignored my original sin
Perhaps I’d not be sharing your gift of my hell.

Hello, Cruel World…

Nativity and Death

What I offer to this world, this word doesn’t want.
That it’s been such a struggle is more than a clue.
How does it all affect me? My bowels are a mess.
I’ve made light of my issues, but now I confess
That I don’t have an inkling for what I should do.
I came with a few talents, but nothing to flaunt.

As it seems, the dark cloud hangs not over my head.
I am fully engulfed in it. None can I see
As a source of fulfillment. I cry right out loud…
Have I done anything for which I can be proud?
When the sole benefactor turns out to be me
Then it makes perfect sense that I’m better off dead.

But, of course, what seems obvious a remedy
Is a thing that society deems as unfair
So much so, it’s a crime among modern-day folk.
It behooves me to see I’m the brunt of a joke
Of profound insignificance. Shocked in despair,
I shall keep on expressing ‘til I cease to be.

Bathe And Begone

Psychotic Desperation

What compounds a sick joke is no one knows I’m bored
To the point of extinction. Yet, why won’t I go
To whatever is next for me? Am I afraid
That I’ll feel even worse than this hell that I’ve made?
I have lost vital patience with all that I know.
If this life is a game, indeed I’ve poorly scored.

I can’t stand my own playpen by now. It’s become
Prison-like in predation. I can’t let you in.
I can keep myself tidy. My soul needs a bath
From its foul incarnation. Am I on the path
Of profound transformation? What nature of sin
Have I done that my life is a tub full of scum.

Loosely rooted in this world, I am at a loss
To know it more sufficiently. Time has run past
Dissipating to nothingness of my free will.
This odd self I’ve created cannot learn to thrill
Anyone to sensation. How long will this last?
Is my health doomed to dive as I carry this cross?

If my complex of inhibition is a clue
That I’m not meant to be here, what could that look like?
As long as I remain here, I’ll do what I do.
Thinking that it has meaning leads to feeling blue.
My need for recognition needs to take a hike.
My hurt self along with it would be something new.

The Choice Of Depression

Lonliness, depression, hoplessness...

I once met an attorney who thought she was good
All because her first case as a prosecutor
Was a suicide. She fought and won the damned case!
It would seem that some lawyers are fit for disgrace.
So, if you plan on leaving, you may be in store
For post-death litigation amid spirithood.

Things are screwed up with life. Isn’t that bad enough?
If I get depressed I’m amplifying the fact.
It’s my responsibility only to be
In a state of wellbeing most naturally.
If I get pissed at something, the way I react
Does determine my psyche and all of that stuff.

Do I choose my insanity? In ways I do.
The expression, “I’m mad at you!” is not benign.
Both subconscious and willing, it can get results.
Often times though, it ends up evoking insults.
I degrade my wellbeing when I piss and whine.
I indeed am my doctor. How so this is true.

Why Suffering?

Hopelessness of Suffering

Take a close look at suffering – not yours or mine
But the hell of the hopeless. No matter what kind
Of dark cloud overcomes one, all translate to pain.
And it all has but one source. Through profit and gain
Few have grabbed up most resources. Most are resigned
To the struggle the gamble in life does assign.

We may call ourselves human, but what’s in a name?
Like Hell’s Angels, we rev up the atmosphere with
Our own brand of excitement despite nature’s nerves.
Have we not come to learn that our Mother deserves
Peace and silent cooperation? It’s a myth
That we’re separate beings and not all the same.

Every morsel that enters this body today
Is connected to some stomach writhing in need.
Every good time relates to the drug overdose.
Taking time to acknowledge that, I can get close
To an understanding of the nature of greed.
It is best that I eat well, but after I pray.

Please Don’t Go

Image of Silent Desperation

Mental maladjustment is sometimes what it’s called.
To lose all the connection to all that we know
Is to live in sheer agony. I can confess
That I know what it feels like. The mind is a mess.
It cannot function healthily nor can it grow.
In the living of life, one becomes unenthralled.

How would I comfort someone who’s feeling this way?
Simply because I’ve been through it, maybe I may
Offer some bit of clarity. All things are one.
When one cannot find within a sense of union,
A small shift in the thinking may better convey
That all are special characters in a big play.

We may all be mere pop-up’s on life’s big touch screen,
Popping in for a brief moment, then popping out.
But we all are the message we send to ourselves.
When one feels disconnected, it’s best that one delves
Into some form of practice to mitigate doubt
That the Myth Of Identity is the machine.

Every cell in The Body and person on earth
Has its duty to this life. How else can it seem?
Conscious obliteration of self can be done
In a way not so tragic, and it’s often fun.
We are not individuals. We are the Dream
Of Creation.
Don’t leave here not knowing your worth.

Lunar Return

TheMagicRealist.com

Suppose I am as real as all that I perceive.
That’s a bold hypothetical! I can’t be sure
If my being has meaning. Prue rage leaves no doubt
That perceptions perceive me. Why do I act out?
All existence to me is an ill with no cure.
If I felt any other way, I’d be naïve.

Is it because it’s Wednesday? I’m mad every day
Because days become vicious then shift into night
Then along comes the next day. All remains the same.
Life plays me like an audio/video game
So the way that I must act must be wrong or right.
Every month, when the moon howls, we both have our say.

Yet, the moon isn’t full now. Have I then misspoke?
It remains full of itself regardless of how
We on earth may perceive it. I guess that’s my point.
Tidal waves, like emotions, are doomed to anoint
Every moment that I have, except for right now
Where all meaning available I may evoke.

Belongingness Longing

TheMagicRealist.com

My Belongingness Longing is called loneliness.
To belong to someone or something that I love
Is to be in fulfillment of much of life’s dream.
Yet, I’m already part of the total life stream
That has taken its residence, like hand in glove,
Into physical matter. To Be Is Success!

I belong to myself. Does it long much for me?
No more than any other does it give a rip
Because it longs for sustenance, just as all flesh.
Its consumption of substance it does to refresh
Its flesh package. At times life can be a strange trip.
I’ve belonged for a while. No one needs to agree.

Longingness is of feelings… affairs of the heart
And of things that no matter can well understand.
Matter needs not the spirit to justify pain.
It endures well within it for ultimate gain.
I’ll recover as I take my heart by the hand
And we both will discover a loving new start.