A topnotch site

A Wry Observation

It is particularly hard to care for yourself, when your self is someone you’ve never particularly cared for.


A Postcard From a Dark Place

Sometimes when I’m at my most pathetic

I wish I could see my self disgust reflected

In the eyes of people who care about me

So I could forgive them for it

And so become a good person

But my loved ones are always way ahead of me

They do all the forgiving for me

Leaving me with a bunch of extraneous forgiveness

That I certainly can’t use on myself

Roots, Trees, and Birds

It’s so easy to miss the truth in cliches

So easy that sometimes I wonder if it’s really there

Or I’m just twisting them to fit my circumstances

Maybe that’s what makes a good cliche, its adaptability?



One cliche speaks of seeing the woods for the trees

It’s about seeing a situation on a grand scale

And not getting bogged down in details (bonus cliche there)

Another warns against neglecting your roots

Remain grounded, keep in mind who you were and how you got here

Contradiction? Maybe, maybe not. It’s all fairly arbitrary language.


There is no cliche I know of that speaks of what trees set root in.

Namely decay. The dark, crawling muck and rock of the forest floor

Where all the things we fear squirm and burrow and feed

That’s where my tree grew. I’ve always been deeply rooted in disgust.


The cliche seems less romantic now, doesn’t it?

Don’t expect to go digging in a mind and not get dirt under your nails.

But that’s nature. In woods and in minds, things die and are fed upon.

From the feeding trees grow and put out branches, birds nest and take wing

From the sky they see the woods, and don’t connect the panorama

To the rot below


Death (part one)

Sometimes we are young

And we tell ourselves this lie:

Nothing is certain

Death (part two)


The final inevitability

Does not stand alone


Taste, smell, sight and sound

Touch, feeling, pain, pleasure

Hunger, desire, and passion

And death


All these are inevitable

Only while we live

To Be Held

Never before has

Someone held me in their arms

While darkness claimed me


I fear your absence

Your untouchable presence

The empty space

Where once there was your truth

How will I fill it

Without lying to myself?


Sometimes, the sheer desire

Of a forbidden act

Leaves you feeling sullied


A black mark on your soul

And all your effort of restraint

Seems beside the point


Innocence is relative

And does not always

Spare you guilt


In my computer

There are some old files

From when I was insane


I wandered in them tonight

That haunted mansion

Of fractured thoughts

Evidence of a wandering soul

Whose tethers to the real

Were cut


After a while

I lost track

Of myself back then –

Wide eyed and sleepless

Stumbling through the tunnels

Of a psychological underworld –

And myself now –

He who tells himself

He’s left that far behind

Cured and set apart

From that unpleasantness


The haunting is real, but

Which of us is the ghost?


A Useless Wish

I wish that we could take holidays from ourselves. Become someone else for a day or a week, then come back. I’d find it much harder to judge other people. And I wouldn’t get so tired of myself.