Stop americaninzing Everything

Young
Kong
chinese food
thinks i should buy in
because it bought into my door
it bought into the idea that
stoned me would see the flyer
on the door and immediately call
because i have no conscience to tell me
layoff the frier foods
layoff the american stereotypes
of ethnicities long since pillaged
until all that is left in the minds of too many
is still-life stereotypes
posed like frozen, false-smiled daguerreotypes
white-washed versions of edible empires sniped
maybe next time i’m stoned
this time i’ll go for two-faced tacos
and the duplicitous burritos

no better than the rest
as my fast food choices can attest

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almost

my parents didn’t really drink
until i was almost old enough
to drive away
and forget
take my little sisters away
they stayed sober just long enough
to raise one kid most of the way
so i could take the rest away
from the drunken furious fights
and the drunken dissatisfied silences
and the nights of taking the slipping wine glass
out of the sleeping hand
pulling shoes off passed out feet
and pulling blankets over snoring forms
the mornings of finding new gin bottles
already almost empty again
then i left
and i left it all to them
to take care of themselves
and now it’s hard to come home
because so little has changed

my disease

my cancer is of the mind
of the soul
Not the body
but it makes me feel so broken
i can barely breathe some days
it eats away at me
from the darkest corners of my subconscious
and steals my days away with sorrow

Why can’t I write anymore?

I’ve found it more difficult to write these days.

My heart is still in pieces

But while the fresh hurt,
bleeding beautiful bright red silk,
bled straight into my poetry,
fed straight into my creativity

Now the hurt is scabbed over,
dully aching ugly rough yellow-brown pus,
dulling my poetry,
muffling my creativity.

Nothing seems to want to come out anymore.
No more alluring but hauntingly shattered phrases.
No more sorrowful sonnets with lonely lines of lost loves.
No more pure poetry, just unrelievedĀ aching.

Discussions of Depression (with the non-Depressed)

Why are you sad?

I don’t know.

That’s not an answer, of course you know.

I really don’t know, I just am.

Why won’t you tell me the reason?

I am telling you, I don’t know the reason.
I’m just sad.

Don’t give me that answer, I want the truth.

The truth is, I truly don’t know.

Don’t run away, you always run away from an answer you don’t like,
so just tell me, why are you sad?

I’ve already told you so many times the answer I don’t like,
I don’t fucking know.

Yes you do, you have to know.

If I knew, I would fix it.
If I knew, I wouldn’t still be so sad.
If I knew, I wouldn’t be here crying,
trying to talk to you about it.

There has to be a reason.

If there was a reason, I would have reasoned it out.
If there was a reason, I would have removed it.
If there was a reason, I wouldn’t still be
resonating with the melody of melancholy.

I see now my mistake in trying to talk to someone
who just can’t understand the not knowing,
just the feeling
of the empty.

But why are you sad?

words from a father to his daughters

have i told you i love you today
you know all i want is your happiness
i know you are sad right now
but all i want is for you to be happy
when you are so sad
it hurts me
to see you so sad
when all i want is for you to be happy
i would blow up this house
blow up the business
and live in the woods
if it would make you happy
if my little girls could just be happy
you are my world
you are my heart
so when you hurt
my world hurts
my heart hurts
i hate to see you so sad
it hurts me to see you so sad
when i love you so much
but i can do so little