Wednesday, February 4, 2015

a poem by the author gary pelow

today is rough, alone and cold, visions of sylvia plath, the great poet, i strive to be as good as her, i am fascinated by the process of writing, i suffer not alone, not when others are aware of my plight, ernest hemingway i do not understand, why did he die and refuse to take a stand, we may never know why, why these horrible attitudes n longing for death occur, or is the fact not a longing to die, but to escape the terror of life, i shake and tremor, eople looking at me, staring in rudeness and horrible manners, perhaps i imagine this, it surely feels real, yet emotions thoughts and feelings are not facts of phyical reality, just an interporation , feelings cloud the the already foggy reality of my own psychosis, there is no joy anymore, i feel solo, i feel abandoned, former friends judge me harshly, when they in fact are abusive criminals, so high and mighty , above all rules they feel  of justice and fairness, an apology from them is appropriate and called for, in their arrogance, i rot here alone, my psychosis unending, limitless pan, and no serenity, unfair all of this is, i seek only justice not revenge or retribution, these things are confusing me, unsettling these facts and feelings are, i write and no one reads, time to advertise my talent, time to strive to be the next plath or hemingway, writing eases the tenson of these horrible ttruths of loneliness, yet self destruction is not  an option, i live in pain in life to avoid the nonexistencee of being dead, i believed as little boy that god is real, yet this has no evidence, you can not prove god or disprove his reality or fantasy, i can not disprove unicorns are real or psychotic fantasy, such  god as this, if he exists, is unorthy of my attention or love, a selfish mean spirited fake man who lives in the sky, to destroy and kill, to torture humanity

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