The Gnawing Evermore

A life of labor. But despite that..

Honesty, and a striving for good. ''Good'', y-yes..

An overall good man, yes, but despite it all this gnawing impression,

this distorted reflection of the self, observing itself with grand lucidity.

Seeing and acknowledging not what is and has been no; but what could've been, and what will become.

A life of labor? What hypocrisy. A great man would've accomplished more in a single year than you have in twenty-nine.

Honesty, and a striving for good? Face your shadow young man, your whole ''self'' is a façade, merely a reflection upon troubled waters,

your hole self, void, devoid, disparate,

shall I reiterate?

And gnawing, evermore, this impression a gaze, Damocles, his damn sword and my own eyes pointed inward, at war

The truth and the idea of truth, yet beneath it all a swollen aching soul, fiery overseer of this nonsense and these idiocies,

hoping that believing is good enough,

hoping that good is good enough?

This, non-existent observer, the Panopticon, the eternal warden,

and a choice. Yet the choice is a farce, a bad joke,

and the gnawing evermore perdure pour toujour.

What is and what could've been.

The peasant and the Caesar, the knowledge that life is both infinite

and terribly fleeting, the potential yes

the potential WASTED,

utterly WASTED.

Even as the chimp leaps and grabss and bites at the gushing fruit, he wonders,

in an unassumed agony, amidst the shivering sweetness of the nectar,

what am I doing?

Behind, a grey corridor of doors both unopened and ajar

Ahead, a sickening maelstrom of gates, entrances, windows, walls and obstacles

Yet right here, a ridiculous little monkey, holding its penis with both hands,

rendered utterly docile by these eyes upon him, by his own eyes upon him;

blushing and trying to hide - what a spectacle - trying to hide what he is truly,

while not knowing who he is truly. Baring teeth, growling,

stained by all that damn nectar, and for what,

and why am I here exactly?

I recall a soft singing of what I thought was a mother, in complete darkness.

Some memories, distant and hazy, of a home amidst three people,

its location shifting all the more. And a big great lie, abuse, lots of confusion

and then the illusion of peace. Oh how the boat idles around,

shaken and beaten by the waves the terrible waves of life yet

what becomes of the boat once the sea tires, once the water calms,

once at last, respite?

Nothing but doubt obsession with greatness a pair of eyes locked onto me and the echoes of what I thought was a father, repeating in an almost comical way his gospel ''You're not special, you're just an asshole like everyone else'' and you burst in laughter, an uproar really, at the absurd thought of

accepting mediocrity.

Anything but that.

The laughter make place for a stern silence, an accepting silence. Certainty.

And so come forth, Ô nagging thoughts,

Ô unending dougts,

come forth the sword upon my head, the knot around my neck yes,

come forth my dreaded pair of watchful judging eyes and lastly,

come forth, Ô gnawing thoughts, evermore-