Ordinary Person

When a friend told me that 

we always hurt the people 

we love the most, I rebelled 

against the notion, the sweet 

breeze of romanticism evoking 

images of brighter futures where 

you and I would live in harmony,  

the threnody muted by change,  

golden-hued waves of promise 

washing us, a cleansing, a baptism, 

ushering in a new epoch 

of Autumn’s mists or fruitful Springs, 

the orchids in bloom with their 

purple and white innocence — 

symbols of beauty and trust. 

Today, I realise there’s no escape 

regardless of what I do, 

I am who I am, and not in a messianic 

way, but in a villainous,

vicious sense — 

a circle of hate, scalding everything it

touches, fire and sulphur,  

brimstone and second deaths.  

I’ve tried and given up,  

fought against the grain  

and languished,  

wondering if there’s any point. 

Is there? Despite all the tender  

moments and the effervescence  

that reverberates through me,  

eliciting smiles and peals of laughter 

from you, this curse,  

this annihilation of

everything righteous 

makes me wonder if I should  

reach beyond the

veil of life and death  

and let the darkness pull me away. 

I would if I could. I’d break away,  

leave no footprints in the sand 

and let the abyss take me 

like an Anti-Enoch, one who walked  

with sin and disappeared,  

but here I am, trying again, 

medicated, enraged by  

the therapist asking me to reflect  

on a past chock-full of my father’s 

violence and perverseness

(a man I’ve become),  

kneeling like a reprobate asking  

for common grace,  

clutching some false notion of 

inner tranquility like a pagan with  

his own ideas of spirituality,  

letting music course through me 

hoping it will inflame some tender  

spot, make it grow and consume the  

gangrenous sores of rage 

until I stand with new flesh  

like a babe reborn,  

praying though I know my petition  

doesn’t even reach the ceiling fan,  

and is swept away by the dust and 

the sounds of traffic, 

counting to ten to  

diffuse the bomb, 10, 9, 8,  

fuck, 7, 6, 5, fuck! Please help me! 

exorcise these demons! Where’s the  

valium? 4, 3, 2, 1…

shit! I have some serious  

issues, unhealthily transcendental,  

enveloping space and crushing  

both hands of time.  

Forgive me, father! I sinned 

when I wanted revenge for what  

you did to me. Forgive me, mother! 

You loved me so much,

but I criticised you, 

a vein of skepticism

runs through me, 

one I would slice, letting

the black, inky 

muck spill on the floor,

if I could find it.

Forgive me God! I’m nothing but a

miserable wretch, a dog who went  

back to his vomit, a slave of agony.  

Forgive me! I love torturing myself 

and my thoughts line up in  

echelons, marching towards  

the plains of sanity, aiming to disrupt

and destroy, steal and kill, 

plunder and purge, and I collapse 

on the bathroom floor, not drunk  

but drunk enough on madness,  

silence watching over me like 

a cherub with a flaming sword

guarding the gates of Eden.