BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,
BTRIPP
btripp

Another poem ... lucky you

Man, this week has been a bitch ... I've been showing classic "clinical depression" signs, and haven't been able to get SHIT done. I've had the same half dozen "highest priority" things on my "to-do" list since last Friday and none of them have budged (although I have gotten some lesser priority things crossed off the list). Typical is what I'm doing now ... yes, I wrote a poem a couple of days ago ... and, yes, I "need" to get these typed up, formatted, filed, etc. eventually, but stuff like this (which has a pretty well-defined "effort window") keeps getting in front of the important stuff which is neurosis-linked and potentially somewhat open-ended. Hell, playing MSN's Bejeweled keeps getting prioritized in front of everything else (rationale on that: if I'm stuck in a panic attack, it's better to "go off somewhere safe", like in a game, than rip up my psyche). Bleh. I want to win the lottery ... I want to get hired by somebody ... I want to not feel so damned freaked out all the time! Oh, hell ... just shoot me now.

Anyway, for your "enjoyment" ... here's the latest scream in the dark:



                    THIS CLINGING NET OF PAIN


                    1
                    madness, terror,
                    kingdom of lies,
                    we are blinded
                    by these untruths,
                    made dull from pulses
                    of incessant drums
                    heralding the nightmare,
                    opening the dark
                    2
                    cycles, recursive,
                    patterns with a point
                    hidden, arcane;
                    we can not touch
                    the web of names,
                    the matrix of occurrence
                    which twists us
                    in and out of sense
                    3
                    there is no shelter,
                    no refuge;
                    all dreams are murdered
                    by the mundane,
                    all we have bleeds off
                    into pools of sorrow
                    and the dried caked gore
                    of massed regrets
                    4
                    into gravities,
                    the endless pit,
                    all roads lead down,
                    cruelly mocking
                    that at this point
                    we are higher than
                    any state we may attain
                    in free-fall on below
                    5
                    all knives and edges,
                    all cudgel weights;
                    every face assaults,
                    every voice assails,
                    every motion injures
                    in this danced destruction,
                    this crushing whirl of panic,
                    this clinging net of pain


                             - Brendan Tripp
                                05/25/2004

                    Copyright © 2004 by Brendan Tripp

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