Analysis of Culmination

Revolving doors,
My time is lost,
I wish they would stay.
What's the point in striving,
Towards every new encounter?
When the happiness brought,
No matter how long,
fades
Revolving doors,
No matter what i do,
Improvement, dissociation, replacement,
All tactics to hide.
From who?
Are you that afraid of finding yourself first?
From finding out why you are scared
You'd rather pass it on,
So easily to self loathing ,
Than to understand that its,
okay
Revolving doors,
When will you learn to stop accepting the role of love,
Onto a heart unfamiliar with the concept.
Until self love can be learned
But that requires recognition of self
Something you desperately avoid.
These patterns you fall into,
You must be tired,
the same conclusion,
Susceptible to self made heartache.
I am defined by the relationships I make with others,
Hating my own character that they adore,
An insult to their reality,
One they wish to share with,
me.

I am behind myself,
Watching my body.
He’s doing great,
It’s a shame I haven’t caught up to him yet.
His aspirations have never been higher,
Yet here I am, separate.
Always holding him back,
Growing while nothing changes.
Progress in all aspects of life,
Except for me.
He refuses to acknowledge me,
As if I’m not apart of him
Finding comfort with what you try and hide,
That's the only way to bring about actual change
Peace with who you are,
No matter the reality,
Of who I am.

It's hard for me
Why isn't exactly clear
But I know its hard for me
Its like no matter how good it can be
It’ll still always be difficult
I feel like a burden
I feel like I’m being taken advantage of
I feel like those close are far
I feel like I’m beside myself.
Depression is so uniquely personal
How it affects each person
No one experiencing the same
A completely unique disorder
Defined by the individual
How can something so intertwined to one's identity
Be a shared feeling among the masses
It's as if its generation defining
How young the affliction seems
I have to imagine my parents were just as sad
But instead they left it at that
That probably explains a lot
Of why it's so hard for me.

Don't let your pain
Bring you this shame
It's not your fault
You aren't to blame
The things that people can do
I know it rattles your brain
But please try to stay sane
And don't let my words hurt you
You couldn't see it from the start
I'm always playing with your heart
I gave you nothing but constant support
Only to cut our time together short
I guess eventually anyone breaks
When all they hear is that they are
Selfish and deluded, most weeks boring and secluded,
That your love had faded long ago
All I was left with, was a heart to ache
Now I'm left with this constant need to improve
While my standards for myself have dissolved
I'm living in a state of limbo, my pain unresolved.

How are you supposed to admit something to someone,
When you can’t admit it to yourself.
You know you need to get it off your chest,
But to do so would mean to be completely vulnerable.
Vulnerable to losing whoever you’d tell.
Stuck between a rock and a hard place,
Unable to tell,
Unable to heal.
Proof that not anything can be done with just human intuition,
That sometimes it requires strength that is unobtainable.
This happens every single day,
Untold truths that exist only in the conscious
A life changing thought,
Enveloped by fear.
People live their entire lives,
Pushing it down,
Further,
And further.
An unknown fact of life that is buried,
Consumed by the worms of the earth.

You really come to understand just how unique each person is when you've spent a day with enough people.
Not to have just met them in a group, but rather one on one.
What each person desires can become clear, tics and mannerisms now obvious to pick up.
Five hours is the perfect amount of time for this, in this time someone will try to crack a joke.
Whether they even meant to or not, to themselves or to you, they will attempt to cause one of you to smile.
It's when peak humanity is observable, you find out what makes someone happy.
They would talk for hours about what they found interest in,
Inevitably people would share an interest,
However, they would never sound the same
Each person could describe something you knew like the back of your hand,
In a way that would make it feel as if you knew nothing on the subject.
Humanity can never be flawed for its passion.
Passion resides still as the greatest skill earned through evolution.
The ability for one to focus on what they are good at and or find love in doing.
This would go on to drive our ability to survive and understand,
Realizing that we must harness our community and its collective passions,
For that way we could all benefit from one another.
A mutual relationship that allows for each person to feel valued.
Each person knows that someone will want to hear them speak.

I never expected how turning 20 would feel.
By now my opinions are my own,
My morals set,
Beliefs somewhat stable.
I've normalized being on my own.
A lack of lust,
What used to be a desire,
Seems more like an event now.
Devoid of passion,
Out of fear for how it’ll turn out.
Despite what some think my age,
We are still growing,
People change,
Now more than ever.
This is the age,
Where we all realize our actions have consequences.
I can no longer just forget.
A skill I had grown to rely on.
Images simply burn too deep now,
Like cigarettes being put out on my cerebrum.
Life feels as if I am chasing checkpoints now,
I guess that's the way it's always been,
But now its succeed or ruin my life,
Instead of hey mom I'm home.
I have expectations to live up to,
A burden that becomes clear,
When I find myself indulging in pity.
Being 20 is understanding that you are in control of everything after this point.
So be sure not to make a mistake,
Because you will not forget it.

We only exist because we can remember.
We give meaning to existence,
Without us defining the meaning to exist,
Then there would simply be no existing,
Not that we could recall that is.
After all, what is something if you can't remember it?
That's why dementia terrifies me,
I see early signs of it affecting my grandmother.
I couldn’t imagine being robbed of the ability to know I exist.
I can only be there for her eventually,
So that I can hold on,
Giving her an existence because I can remember her.
Why it has to come in stages,
The worlds sickest joke,
Forcing a person to feel their loss of identity.
Please don’t forget them.
For their sake let them live on vicariously through you.

How do I enjoy my work,
Despite the raw emotion on display,
The effort put into forcing myself to relive traumatic events,
All for the sake of allowing myself to heal.
I can simply acknowledge that my work is necessary,
That like therapy,
I can vent and vent,
Going over what I had just splurged onto a page,
Only to then critique and finds the flaws in my feelings,
A conversation with myself that maintains pursed lips.
I could cry in self reflection,
Only to have a reader briefly indulge with my work,
Glancing over any sort of minutiae that I intended,
Not that they are even ignorant,
More that they simply can never be there for the writing process.
That is, the fate of any media is innately blind audiences critique,
Failure to delve into what makes the writing have character.
No author is an immediate success,
After all, Stephen king was rejected thirty times initially before being recognized.
My point is, do not give up hope in your writing,
No matter what you are writing,
It is worth keeping and continuing.
Your passion, no matter how mundane it can make you feel,
It will carry you to a better conscious state unknowingly.

Patience is the only way that I am able to obtain virtue.
Day to day life can become so mundane,
Somehow an entire twenty four hour period is swept under the rug,
It becomes one of the days that fills the finite void of memories lost to time.
Time loves to rob us at every chance it can,
Days, memories, ideas, beliefs, morals, spirit.
All victims to time.
It is one of the only ideological constants,
Where there is thought, there is a need to know the time in some capacity.
Life will always be aware of death,
That eventually time will have won its battle against us,
As we are greeted by mistress death.
In that moment we are released from our shackles of knowing,
Instead of always waiting for the end,
We are set free from all burdens.

I am so blissfully unaware of the signs of addiction when thinking about you.

What are we without the pursuit of happiness,
That is, the hope that we can be happy at any cost.
A natural human achievement that each of us strives for.
One of the only things all humans can agree on,
No matter the shape that happiness manifests itself as for each individual,
There is the innate desire to be happy.
Each human brain is imprinted with its own unique perspective of how to be happy.
Scary how we can agree on the need for it but not on how to obtain it.
What do you do if one person's happiness requires another's to no longer be feasible,
I would say that person was dealt a cruel hand by fate,
That hopefully they can find comfort in death,
Because their pursuit of happiness is flawed in nature.
To not understand that each person deserves the same pursuit,
A failure to self access and assign responsibility.

Have you ever found a person's personality to be intoxicating?
The way they present themselves, distinct among seven billion.
As if you were destined to meet, fate demanded it.
You can feel as if you had known someone your entire life,
In one single moment.
A prophecy fulfilled,
To put it in a less fantastical sense,
Ground it in reality,
You need to talk to this person more.

Each passing day renews my lust to keep living,
All I can focus on are the new memories,
New wrinkles that define my brain,
This chamber somewhere in my head,
Where all of my thoughts go to be buried,
Before they are buried however,
They are embalmed,
They will remain fresh when they feel the need to rise,
Exactly how I remembered them.
Whether that be for better or for worse,
Simply depends.
I desire to keep living and to keep making memories,
To embalm my thoughts of momentary bliss,
I can keep living for them.

What is pride?
This means that I need to live up to the expectations that my fathers wrote?
I am suffocating at the scripture you feed me.
I have been trying to fight for my dance since day one.
Knowing what I’m meant for is acknowledging my faults while they are dispersed in soil.
Those ignorant, may follow my fault, in blind acceptance,
For what my current tongue spits.

But I promise that what I spit is not fact, but purely a hopeful message for anyone who wasn't able to vocalize their plight.
I have renewed my need for acceptance in the people around me and the lives that they live.
I am able to feel free, I am able to feel me.
Through the sanctity that I have gained through those close.
I am able to exemplify this part of me that I wish was forced into seclusion.
Recognize what is your belief. Not those who you look up to for guidance.
Pride is what holds us back from our virtue, our inability to say we did it
We have done it, our proof is in our pudding, we have been raised right.

Currently I am lost.
Not that I have no intent for my destination,
But I simply wish to be lost.
How can I plot a course if nothing feels apt.
Each morning I awake in terror yet you expect me to be upheld.
I cannot be these monoliths that define your dreams, for I am a man.
I will do wrong in my attempt to seek virtue,
For that I can only behoove myself,
Please find your own path, separate from my own.

I cannot speak for those I do not know,
Writing is simply an attempt to relate,
This need for another to recognize what has been said.
Finally someone gets you.
Or they just like what you've said, they will not internalize a thing.
And that's fine, these conditional drafts for free speech are truly perplexing as each drunken line is met with red dotted lines as if what was said was wrong.
You’ll never know if I made that up or if that was a reality you had lulled yourself into, how easy isn't it?
To hope.

What am I but an accumulation of regret?
I could argue to that, that I am my mothers ambitions,
I am the direct result of my family's determination.
At that, I am all that I described.

Wake up,
Get dressed,
Brush my teeth,
Shower,
Do the laundry,
Do the dishes,
Take my medication,
Cook a meal,
Take out the trash,
Drive to work,
Come home from work,
How can I keep up with this all,
stay up,
Indulge insomnia,
Let the sun rise,
Finally able to close my eyes,
Wake up.
I am living a fulfilling life.

I'm writing all of these poems in the hope that someone will listen,
Even if that someone is myself,
I need it to be myself,
But who knows if he can analyze his own words,
His incessant need to seek help,
Unable to solve his own issues,
Enveloped by the keys and the blue light,
We are drifting,
Our conscious flowing through our fingertips,
When we awake,
You've given me a form.
So that you don't lose your own.
Our relationship is symbiotic.
I need you as much as you need me.

What do I do if someone has already said what I’ve said here a thousand times already.
Is this all worth it?
All the time, the tears, the hours of sleep I can’t get back.
I have to imagine every writer thinks this about everything they produce.
Will it all be worth it?
I know it will be because my family will read this.
I know it will be because those I love will read this.
I am able to provide a deeper introspection,
I can hopefully help them understand.
This is worth it because I have fun.
I’ve unlocked a voice from its cage,
Finally it can stop gnawing on my brain matter,
And instead it can find peace here in these pages.

Why is it that every person is always looking for a way to make change?
For some reason, no one is completely happy in life.
This constant rush for the next new thing,
Something to abuse our dopamine receptors,
Anything to abuse our dopamine receptors.
I need to get in shape,
I need to go learn a new skill,
I need to start a family,
I need to get money,
I need to stuff my face,
As a human I need,
Otherwise my dissatisfaction will grow to consume me,
Dissatisfaction becomes resentment,
I refuse to grow and be resentful,
So I must change,
My brain,
My heart,
My body,
Try breaking down yourself,
Would you not change one detail if you could?
We have to change to survive in this world.
How can we ever be happy in a world that expects us to change to survive?

Determination, the will to strive.
Whether that be forward or backward,
Determination builds routine,
Seemingly the only possible way.
Determined to get a degree,
Determined to smoke every day.
Determined to build secure relationships,
Determined to self loathe.
Determined to keep living,
Determined to remind myself of death.
Determined to value family,
Determined to maintain solitude.
Determined to hear what you have to say,
Determined to drown out the world around me.
Determined to finish this book,
Determined to keep deleting what was.
Determined to be satisfied,
Determined to give you more.
Determined to get rid of these negative routines.
Determined to suffer.
Fate has determined it so it seems.

Caring for you is effortless,
Each breath sacred to me,
How can it not be so easy?
When someone encapsulates each of my five senses.
When they have robbed my dopamine receptors,
Never to fire properly again,
How can they?
Without you,
They are simply begging.
So of course it's easy,
Reassuring you when you doubt me,
Why would I take that personally?
When I know you are a victim to your own brain.
I would much rather hold you,
There is simply no time for spite,
Not with how little we are given on this earth.
There is only time to remind myself,
That you love me.

I wish the graveyard would slow down,
I was promised a different life,
As a child no one warned me,
About the permanent scar that death leaves.
My focus has been ripped from my skull,
There is only room for them.
I need the graveyard to stay empty.
Death leaves no room for someone to uphold their promises.
How can we ever do what we dreamed of,
If you aren't here to dream.
I hate you for leaving,
I love you for leaving.
I can only celebrate your life to save face,
The reality is that your graveyard will always be there now,
Instead of your face,
All I have left is the memory and our ambitions.

My generation of peers seems to be defined by our collective suffering,
How can we succeed if we inform ourselves?
Is the only way to be happy anymore,
Through ignorance alone?
Mother Earth is weeping in our wake,
All of her children crying out for help,
Help that will not come,
Business must be maintained for man to suffice,
Low wages for the voices in mass,
High wages for the expansionists.
Our fate is clear and all we can do is watch.
Only through strikes and revolution,
Could actual capitalist dogma come to a decline.
To that I say good luck my friends.
It will rob you of your right to the pursuit of happiness,
The unstoppable force of needing money to survive,
Meets the immovable object that is our need for better living.
The two cannot exist in tandem,
Not for the population.
For you cannot make money while you ask for better living.
To strike is to suffer,
To demand your rights as a human,
It will cost you the ability to maintain.
My friends,
Find your peace any way you can,
Because the world will not provide for us.

I have not lost hope in an afterlife,
I just wish to not try and understand,
I think that is human arrogance,
To pretend like we can know what life holds when it's gone.
Find peace how you will,
But recognize your faults in assuming any belief as correct.
No belief is the only way to remain humble.
I will surrender myself completely to death,
There will be no fear as there is nothing to visualize.
I will not die with the pride in assuming I will get into Heaven,
I will not die with the fear that I will burn in Hell for all my faults,
I will not die with a thought of what comes next,
I will die.
What comes next,
If anything,
Will have my complete submission.

The grass outside my window is growing tall,
Light is finding it hard to seep in.
Sentimentality has locked me here,
Watching the grass grow.
I like the cold at night now,
Open the window,
Let the tall grass blow inside.
As long as I’m cold.
The bugs can join me,
The mice can join me,
Let mushrooms grow around my bed frame,
I am imprisoned by my need to remember.
Vines have started to sprout out of skin,
My mattress, now soil.
This room has been lost to time,
This body lost to human incompetence.
It is better to be a bed for literal growth,
Maybe my body can do what I could not.

There is no need for envy,
As it's said,
The only deadly sin with no pleasure associated.
To cut envy out of your life,
Replace it with support and assertion,
That is,
Where you envied your peers,
Support them instead,
Where you envied those who have more,
Assert whether it is valid to criticize the individual.
Wealth and success gained through the deceit of a lower working class,
Let it not be envious to criticize this wealth,
Rather a morally just critique.
Envy is manifested only when you are the reason,
Dissolve these desires to look to others by c