It takes a lot of courage

To emotionally convulse

In a crowded room

Of people who cannot see

What you are going through.

It is so terribly hard

To laugh and cry, to dance and flagellate

In one single breath

But sometimes it's just the way it is.

It doesn't matter

If I appear to be sitting, quietly

With a glass of wine

Or making conversation

With a friend of hers

(Or yours, you all look at me the same way)

None of that matters,

Because there are volcanoes inside

And you'll never know

Except that I tell you

Sometimes, that I am approaching the abyss

And you do not hear from me for days.

Once, it was a week,

And you asked what had been wrong:

I told you there had been a struggle

And nothing had been decided

But a city had spasmed

And been destroyed

And a burning village

Had seen such horrors

That I cannot describe them.

You did not understand

And I kissed you and told you not to worry,

But I didn't sleep for two nights.

You said I looked ill

And I said I felt dead.

So now, can you see

An element of the problem?

It gets so difficult to function

And I have to take some time away

To think about it all,

But when I fall in love

(As, you may have noticed, I did with you)

Everything is so much better

So much worse

But at least I have

A cause:

Can you ever understand?

I am not sure

Whether this is any kind

Of epic

But I am,


Telling you of something I do not understand

And momentary glimpses

Of translation

Might sink in:

Do you even sympathise?

I have done so many cruel, cruel things

With such abandon,

But you fell in love

With my abandon

And my vulnerability.

So, there you see the visions and

The heights of passion

But there is so much more:

If you are bored

Retire to your armchairs,

And make war on me.

The guilt, for one

You have not seen

The wastelands

Through which I've trudged


And Gulags

Such atrocities

As I have committed, I have

Renewed upon myself

In some perverted redemption,

Some desperate guilt:

It runs so deep

And never dies

And shame is such a potent drug

That you can become addicted

I vowed

I would never let it die.

You cannot understand this much

Because I have used the wrong words

No poetry, psychology

Or even passion

I can only explain

In a monotone

That reeks of fatigue and regret:

I feel in love

With my fatigue and regret,

I feel it now.

What more is there

Of which I might speak?

The frustration of ambition

And the longing for art:

Perfection with all its flaws

And this beautiful melancholy:

The hopelessness of love

And the love of hopelessness

Such paradoxes

Amuse my poor, tired heart

And I have seen it all, I do not

Wish to see another vision

Of such awful savagery, sinister madness

Or any of these dreams

You do not have to suffer

So please, do not judge

My passion for my suffering:

It is my child

And I treat it as such.

Another thing:

Have you ever felt

As incomparably bereft of life

As I do

When I have nothing to do?

Every second

Must be accounted for

My heart must race

At all times

With pursuit of something divine

Do you understand?

This is redemption,

This is passion

This is beauty

This is life, for me

This love of art

And music

And literature

Is so much more fulfilling than the life you offer.

I am speaking to you, my reader

My audience

As if you were a friend

Or a lover,

Except I speak honestly to you

Because you are anonymous

And I am some poor fool

Who never lived

And will never die.

I make my confession, and I stagger through the world of pain and such conflicting emotions that I literally cannot articulate… oh, my lover, what did you mean to say when you called me a hero? You said I had borne so much, but I have my crutches and I have my scars… I adore you, but I'll never know your name (love is such a topic for words! There is so much pain and so much poignancy… beauty is everything), oh GOD once more I'm convulsing a little, please excuse the involuntary twitches and occasional blackout, the drinking helps, I promise…

These snippets

Of prose

May mean nothing to you,

Disconnections and

Such bizarre phrases,

But my poetry is hardly better

All I do is put my mind onto the paper

And scrape away the gore

And try to censor the extremity

Of everything I undergo.

This is not my epic,

This is my confession

My explanation.

If you do not think it is poetic

Or artistic

I agree,

But it had to be said.