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Personal Sharings / Healing Fragmentation
Don't tell me what's wrong with me.|
Don't tell me what you think you know,
what you are so sure of,
that you simply must share with me...
shove down my throat!
with all your postures and diagrams and charts
and reasons and rationales and lofty wisdoms.
You kill my love for you by inches.
Each "telling" slams me backward 9 miles
and I look at you then through a lens
darkly and distorted
with hatred and distrust.
You think you know so much.
You think you have such large understanding of me
of my pain
of my patterns.
You don't really know me
or hear me
or see me.
And by these great truths you proclaim
The air must be thin up there,
so high up in your head.
or real true understanding.
And if I dare to tell you what I feel
by my relentless movement
If by some strange courageous attempt,
I dare to tell you what I feel
... If I dare to open my heart to you ...
Don't say "I knew it"
or "I told you so"
or "That's what I thought"
or any of your
I don't care if you ARE right.
I don't care what you see...
what you know...
what you think you know.
This telling, this gloating, this "I'm so smart"
is your way of ensuring your survival.
But I don't care if you survive.
Because your survival depends on my wrongness
On the wrongness of everyone you meet.
I feel it with every breath you snort in my direction.
It slams me back 9 miles
and I see you through a dark lens
hideous and distorted
You are a lurking beast
a huge balloon head atop mangled shoulders
You go about busily
feeding your head with
Feeding the furnace of
the better-than, know-it-all, smug, superior, CRAP machine.
Do you hear me?
Will you ever hear me?
Or will you bolster your position again?
Tell yourself that this is "justified"?
That this is your "free expression" of how you feel
and therefore should be allowed
should be swallowed
should be chewed and savored and blessed
and then begged for...
It's a lie you tell yourself
Feeding your head,
feeding the dark consciousness hovering over your shoulder,
grinning at me gleefully.
Perhaps superiority is the only "feeling" you know.
Perhaps you don't know anything else.
And you wield the knife of guilt
sharpened and honed...
You require that we bow and scrape
and accept and allow
and beg for more.
To be "good", we must become proper little supplicants
practicing our willingness,
open our mouths and turn our cheeks,
smiling, staying in the game...
bare our backsides and let you you "teach" us
the error of our ways.
You demonstrate how it should be done
how to swallow the bitter pill
and like it.
You "take" instruction
you listen and nod and allow
you chew and savor and swallow
you thank your tormentor and
ask for more.
Then you smile at me and say
"See, that's how it's done."
So good you are.
So grown up.
So kind to show me how to be a better person,
if I could only be just like you.
You carelessly slice and dice
and watch me bleed with aloof disinterest,
and judgments, so thin and piercing.
I have no weapon to return the wound you inflict.
I have no way to reach your absent heart.
Feed your head elsewhere.
Chew on somebody else's tender core.
Mine is not for you.