BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

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

                    madness, terror,
                    kingdom of lies,
                    we are blinded
                    by these untruths,
                    made dull from pulses
                    of incessant drums
                    heralding the nightmare,
                    opening the dark
                    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
                    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
                    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
                    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

                    Copyright © 2004 by Brendan Tripp


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