Being True to the Process

I wrote the below post earlier this week. However, I removed it pretty quickly because of several things. One is that I just sat down to write a blog without much thought as to what it would be and when I was done I realized I had written the post like a poem or something. And don't get me wrong, I really enjoy writing (professionally, essays, blog posts, etc,) but I've never written poetry really - maybe a couple cracks at it in school, at most.

So to see that I had written something that was not really just a post but kind of a poem or a, hell, I don't even know. Anyway, suffice to say I didn't intend to, and one of the reasons I took it down was that I didn't want people to either think it sucked because I was trying to write a poem (though it clearly has no structure) and/or that I was a pretentious asshole who thought he could write good poetry and needed to share it with the world.

The other reason was how negative it was.

However, I've now decided that whatever it is, it most importantly is where I was when I wrote it, and that is what matters. The purpose of this blog is not to write things I am proud of technically or even content-wise, but to share honestly, openly, both the ups and the downs I experience as I try to create massive change in my life.

The post:

Food, you fucking evil bitch.
You cutthroat, joking, tricky trickster fuck.

Food, you never sleep - you're tireless.
You needle me through night or day, or both.

Food you drain my energy.
The want for you clouds my need to act.
Desires to move and change crumble in your hands.

You're a marrow sucking bastard, gnaw away at all my strength.
You're a junkie's junk, food.
You trap me in a prison constructed from you my greatest vice.

A crack head with a room devoted to the storing, creation, and preparation of crack.
A crack head with another room devoted to the act of smoking it.
Food, what's a more unholy hell than that?

The alcoholic gives up the bottle,
He must not pick it up for at least 3 moderate drinks a day to sustain his life.
What an insidious evil you are.

Food, you are comfort in infancy, childhood.
A reward for success.
A gathering centerpiece, a foundation for fellowship.

A life enriching thing, lauded for millennia in books and stories.
You're an art form at best, a travesty at worst.
A guilty pleasure.

Food you fucking lousy lover, you don't fulfill despite your bluster and bravado.
Your sweet nothings whispered are just that.
When it's over I'm left with no comfort, no thrill, no hope, no calm, no peace.

Food you fucking mother fucker.
I can't BELIEVE I have to stay to survive,
I'd fucking leave.

Like an abused spouse I stay with you and come each day to you.
To feast at your trough.
To gorge on your empty promises.

Fuck you.

I sit on the precipice of fatal sickness from you
Yet healing is to ingest your germs?

Fuck you.

Fuck you for who I have become.