Pick your poison

        Too bad that I am smart enough to realize that drinking isn't gonna help, really. Most days I watch the people around me engaged in superfluous interactions, their lives filled with stupidity and instability, but the one thing they always seem to retain is a smile. Occasionally one of them will actually respond when I talk to them, they'll tell me that they're jealous of my head, my comprehension, but they don't understand the price that comes at. I have yet, in my life, to have the nerve to tell one of these rampant, ecstatic idiots that they can't possibly understand the awfulness that spreads throughout the body from having a full understanding of everything that is going on. The ability to see past facades, the ability to step back and judge objectively, to solve inherent problems, weigh on the person like a ton of uranium chained to your back. You can feel it killing you inside, but there's not a thing you can do to get away from it.
        Countless Times I have been told of how lucky I am to have these ability, but never once have I responded with how I truly feel. Never once have I told anyone that I am jealous of their happiness. But jealousy is an odd sort of thing. I hate everything about the way that i feel all the time, but I know enough to realize that when it came down to it, I'd rather have my intelligence than not. I would go so far as to say I might rather be worse off. Be so intelligent that I no longer lie somewhere in between humanity and pure machine, I would rather be a savant, devoid of any connection to those around me, but so utterly brilliant that an impact on the world would come easy. Funny, it seems I desire an affliction, probably, but perhaps once you've gotten past humanity, life gets easier. All humans strive for in life is happiness, ever single person is driven by the need to procreate and the desire to be happy, but look around. What are the two hardest things to accomplish in this world? Or the first world, at least? It would seemingly be a mate and true happiness. We are a species of masochists, if not sadists. And this probably all goes back to the most basic topic of this rant, intelligence. The ability to step back and see what's fucked up is not a common one, so while the majority of humanity afflicts each other with nothing but pain, I will watch from my vantage point, see how silly it is and be utterly unable to do anything about it.
         I stopped drinking yesterday, I got tired of being unable to write because I was always drunk. It is pretty clear to me which one I would rather be doing, so I'll deal with my misery sober. In the words of a close friend of mine, I am no Hemingway. Once sober, poetry seems to start sneaking out of me in small capacities, so, for the four of you, maybe, who read this blog, and probably the one that has made it this far into the post, here are both of the poems I wrote last night.

Ill-Fitting
Why is it that it seems
every movement that I make
urks the hell of those around me?
I am just another man, or so i thought.
So I can't help but entertain
ideas that I may not.
When I wlak by a crowd
every single eye looks into mine
and when I extend a hand
to reciprocate my name again,
no matter who it is,
for a time they're left bewildered.
When I sit alone a stranger never
seeks to interact.
But I find myself consistently
dropping words to those who sit alone.
And even when I throw a bone
to those in need,
to those distressed,
their nervousness beseeches me,
as if I wore a shirt of ribs
or held a femur club.
I will never understand the fact
the every human wants some interaction,
but every time I try to fill that role,
I'm given nothing but resistance.
No, I must be something different.

        I'm going to be direct about this next one, though likely no one has made it this far, it is (pretty obviously) about myself. The problem dictated is no longer what is wrong with me, but a catalyst has some hold in its outcome still. I'm paying respects.

A Tempest Tragedy
Who would've thought the man
that withstood all types and strengths of pain
would find himself a useless heap
left but to try in vain
to resist inflictions of despair
to try not to refrain
when confronted with the girl
who sat down beside him in the rain

      I would bet no one has made it this far, which is ok. If you have made it this far, I respect you for tolerating my ramblings of madness. This blog is hard to write when I know that less than four people read it, but I suppose it gives me something to put my feelings into words with.