The Judge

insecurity

My life is thus:
The judge sits at his bench,
Demeaning and destructive;
His verdict offers no justice,
His sentence serves no rehabilitation.
Before him, I would be a prisoner
Shackled in solitary evermore;
Any attempt at release
Would be mocked and chided
Because, in his words,
I am worthless,
No longer any good to society.
I certain am not deserving
Of an angel’s touch or affections,
And to try would be wasted effort.
There is no sense in prevailing,
For these years alone have taught me nothing
But how to wallow and loathe myself.
His accusations sting caustic,
Like a shard of ice through my heart,
And though he has no right,
No position to castigate me,
I listen to him all the same,
Knowing even as I do what I am losing,
What I am passing up,
What I have let slip out of my life.
This judge that sits before me
Is invisible to the world,
Deaf to their ears,
But to me he is more real than anyone,
And his voice is the loudest,
Drowning out any pleas,
Any compliments,
And every opportunity.

A Rumination on Repudiation

Since this is a personal blog, I feel (have always felt, really) that I am justified in posting whatever I feel like posting, be it jocular or solemn. So today, dear readers, enjoy a veritable, if extremely short, work of poetry I crafted. It seems to keep in tone of this blog’s ambivalent title, anyway. (And no, future poetry posts will not feature superfluous intros like this.)

No idea who drew this, but it’s beautiful and it fits

Is there a corner I can turn that doesn’t lead to repudiation?
Each step forward is another step downward,
Further into the cavern of uncertainty,
Deeper into the recesses of self-doubt.

Woe, that I should lean so heavily on the consideration of others,
That an esteem built on peer acceptance balances on a crumbling pillar.
And to what do I owe this demise?
An inflated ego, or perhaps my own folly?

My lamentations are bruises to your conscience,
But spare me your sympathy—it’s been iterated days before,
And pity injects the psyche like anesthesia does the bloodstream:
Numbs me to all around me, but the wound still exists.

Rejection wouldn’t sting if it was dosed with acceptance,
But the spurns are continuous, and the notions of success fleeting;
And to wake to another day in the cold embrace of solitude
Renders me a corpse, corporeal but soulless,
Heartless.