Song of Myself

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Right, well here is a poem that I wrote in January (after my girlfriend broke up with me, but don't worry, it is not a stupid teen emo crap poem... I think) in the style of Walt Whitman's Song of Myself (although, not really the same style, I wasn't going for that, but the assignment was to write a 'Song of Myself'). I was going to publish it in our school literary magazine, but when I read it out loud, my current girlfriend was embarrassed (for good reason, it was stupid of me to read it), so instead, I am posting it here.


There is said to be a Universal Man,
One who with everyone can connect,
One who shares thoughts, secrets, and emotions,
The library of our minds and hearts.

He tells us he feels love and joy, hate and anger,
Pain and sorrow, life and hope, death and resignation,
And he expects, he knows, that we all feel the same.

The Universal Man is allowed his arrogance,
For he is, after all, everyone,
And if we call him arrogant, we are only recognizing
that we are confident in our own overconfidence.

I am not writing this because I think I am the Universal Man.

On the contrary, I do not think I am anything more than me,
And yet, I know I am not unique, either,
For everything I have done has already been done,
Everything I know has already been discovered,
And everything I feel has been explored and experienced before.

In fact, I am so much like everyone else that it would seem,
Despite my above protests,
That I am a self-proclaimed universal man,
My statements on the contrary only being a show of attempted modesty,
Which if I were He, I would assume that most try to show.

However, by the act of placing these words on paper,
Sounding out what I know in the black cavern of my mind,
I am only adding to the cesspool of generic writing,
So inherent in our unoriginal and overused world
that it has become original to mock our own conformation
to a dead art world, as if by recognizing our ability to ruin through repetition
is actually heroically reviving a cynical DNR-patient
on a TV show who is giving up on life against everyone else’s wishes,
So that by the end of the show, the captive audience is excited enough
to jump from its chair applauding and shouting relief,
For the main character has saved yet another pitiful life.

No, I am not unique, although it would seem my misery has a special antipathy for me.

It tears inside, ripping and shredding, cutting and slicing, chopping and crushing,
Like rusty nails through the throat,
Jaggedly slashing so breaths come haggardly,
And infecting the skin so it peels back and crumbles away with the slightest touch.

Ribs are cracked, lungs deflated, skull caved in, and spine shattered,
Like a maul came down,
Intent on destroying so life could cease,
And inconsiderately not finishing the job, so pain could remain without relief.

Death would be preferable to the physical pain, in fact,
Because the pain is just one step away from murder,
But it will never finish its job,
For some unknown and merciless reason,
Perhaps because the emotional pain is always the true assassin.

But for sorrow to exist, there needs to have been ecstasy in the first place.

Beauty at its finest,
A gleaming smile that banished the soul-eating wraiths consuming me,
A galaxy of colors in her eyes, the faint green melting into glowing brown,
The stars have nothing on her eyes.

Her eyes bought me and her lips kept me forever,
I wouldn’t take mine away from hers if I could have,
The taste of a lifetime ran through her blood, ran through to me,
Like nothing I have ever experienced, my lips on hers.

And if her eyes bought me and her lips kept me, then her skin made me a willing victim,
For I gave myself in, caressing her soft, safe, skin,
Breathing in her subtle scent, tasting her perfection,
There is no way I could forget her sharp breathing,
Or her weakened smile,
Or her elated eyes,
Or her.

Eventually, though, ecstasy and perfection fall to the malignant trial of time.

Standing alone now, knees weak and lip quivering,
I have lost something still so dear to me
that sudden change, sudden loss, sudden despair, couldn’t anger me,
But it could destroy me.

It was love, oh, it was certainly love,
A single comfortably glowing ember from the world’s stockpiled inferno,
But one that kept me warm when the wind blew,
One that was bright for me to see when the darkness flowed,
One that was self-sustaining, surviving through monsoons and bad metaphors.

And now I’m left to wonder
what it all meant – was everything what it seemed,
Was it ever mutual, was it ever meaningful,
Was it ever uncommon, was it inevitable?

And what time is said to heal, what is supposed to get fixed, only gets worse.

I have time to think to myself now,
Time that is supposed to repair the heart and mind,
But somehow the possibilities that an ever-racing mind finds
add up and overload,
Who’s ready for a breakdown?

If we keep it real slow,
With a single repeated phrase,
Add in some cymbals and heavy screams,
We’ve got ourselves a hardcore song,
An emotional, inspiring ride that now fails because of the over-flooding of the genre.

I think, therefore I wish I didn’t;
I think, therefore I try to rationalize;
I think, therefore I lose my mind;
I think, therefore I wish for an end.

And as for space, well, enough is too much.

Oddly enough, I would rather see that smile again,
See those eyes,
And while I couldn’t touch those lips or skin,
They radiate more brilliantly than if I was to collect all the stars for her
and put them in a box as her birthday gift.

But I would rather be around her than alone,
For loneliness brings feverish thoughts,
And feverish thoughts bring boiling tears
that streak down the face, burning scars into wet cheeks, and fall forever.

At least near her I can feel a sense of normalcy,
Despite the irony in that statement, considering who she slaughtered
and what she took, even if it was unintentional and unwanted.

Death is a funny thing, really, when you look at it.

Numb, I sit there, staring off at nothing,
Or something that becomes nothing in the grand scheme of things,
And I think to myself, ‘what now?
What do I do with the fragments?
What do I do?

Tears fall and arms shake,
Eyes widen, and hearts ache
as I irrationally conclude it must end,
It all has to come to a flowing halt, I whimper.

Drawers get opened, knives unsheathed,
And I look in the mirror, take a deep breath,
Find my pulse, feel the lifeblood flowing, beating, pulsing from my heart,
And imagine how the tile floor would look sticky and red,
And I place the cold blade against my neck, waiting,
Waiting for my skin to warm it up before I freeze permanently,
Before all I have ever known runs from me in a timed rhythm,
Beating with the shattered remains of my internal clock,
Waiting, waiting, and then I would take the knife down,
For I can’t take my own life,
I can’t slit my own throat and watch myself become a corpse in the mirror,
No matter how much I want it, I cannot do it.

Lack of willpower sucks almost as much as misery itself.

I don’t know why things happen that shouldn’t,
Unsuspected deliveries from a deranged god playing at mailman,
Or perhaps I was prepared for something she was not,
And as a result, I was not prepared for something she was.

But I do realize that I have lost a poorly designed game,
(Again, perhaps the twisted workings of some maniacal omnipotent celestial being?)
And that the only way from here is up,
Which is what I keep getting told by those who I think care,
But also that if or when they are in my position,
They would respond with the same, monotonously sickening,
“I can’t.”

So I put on a smile and walk with a straight gait,
Pretending I’m sad but not willing to die,
Pretending so my friends can ask what’s wrong but not suspect anything,
Pretending so I can shrug off the implications of my thoughts,
Pretending so I don’t have to face anyone,
And not surprisingly, I’m an awful actor.

Also not surprisingly, while having the knowledge that others feel the same, I feel alone.

It is obviously not a unique situation,
Having your soul wrenched from your body,
The life-force sucked drier than a victim of Dracula himself,
The elation crushed by the unavoidable fist of change,
And yet, it doesn’t seem like anyone else is as soulless, bloodless, or crushed.

I haven’t really said anything special about anything,
Other than noting my own misery in what will be said as an attempt for sympathy,
Nor have I bluntly connected it to other humans,
Except with my suppositions that everyone feels grief,
But I do believe in what I said:

I am not a universal man, and certainly not the Universal Man,
And I am not writing this to try and forge a link with humankind,
Or anyone in particular, for that matter,
And I am not writing this to garner empathy for what wracks me,
I am just writing this because I don’t know what will save me,
Perhaps this poor attempt at not writing generic sappy poetry will,
Or perhaps another sudden change somewhere will be my savior,
But this is not a song about you,
Or about the general populace,
Or about her,
Or about anyone,
This is a song about me,
It’s my song of myself.