Im thinking about publishing poetry again but this time under a pseudonym. Theres something about my poetry that is just too “normal”. By that, I mean not jarring enough. The poetry world loves shock. Im not necessarily gay enough or black enough to scream it to the world yet, but maybe I will get there. This is all really funny since I’m me and I am the furthest person from normal there is. My name literally spells eccentric. You see -> Nyade(eccentric)t!
Anyways, I will be going by the name Michael Jove, in honor of my first love Michael Jackson. Mike Jove, or MJ is a boring white man, who plays dungeons and dragons and steals ideas from women all of the time. It will take a couple of months to get his name into the scene, but soon enough he will be there just because boring white men seem to make We will see how well this works. If it is effective then I will know that my poetry is not that bad, but if it doesn’t work I will come to terms with the idea that my poetry is terrible and people just don’t like it and afterwards, I will become a hermit and live in life of squalor for the rest of my life as I will isolate myself from everyone I know!
There is comfort in books. Despite the authenticity of its content, were are consoled by its inability to jump at us and force us into a reality. The worst stories are those that haunt us. The once that exist after we have waken up. The stories that are our own.
It has taken quite a while for me to find solace in my story. To say I have, would be an utter lie, but to say I’m trying, is true. I am ravaged with insecurity, torn over the thought of existing in this world where my humanity is in question at all times. I am a from a line of men and women who’s name I don’t know. I am the product of a love that existed moons ago. Yet, despite all this, I am existing.
This life is not my own. It is the accumulation of threads. A spider web of relationships that make me who I am and through that thread is a line that leads to you. A line that connects us and I am grateful to have met you. I have always been the one to fear who has my story, who is walking around with the contents of my life, but I know that with you, it is safe.
We talked about stories. The stories that are hinged in between the lines and spaces of papers and those that are harnessed within the people we have lotted to.
Stripped down to the core, we are nothing. We are just a product of stars and a jumble of cells. To the core, we are made up of everything around us, and everything around us is made up of us. To say the least, we are not special, yet we are cruising on the walk searching for a something. Something to make us more worthwhile, to make this life worth living. To ensure that there is meaning to the days where everything we do seems pointless. We are holding on to a future that rids us of this “nothingness”.
Man made -isms give us nothings, something to live for.
and I sit in my bed, crying next to this couple
Whos lives’ leave the same taste of disappointment
In their mouths. I wonder if they know
Who am I without my pain.
because I was too happy. Because i wasn’t sad enough to write in this stupid blog. Because I am in love with my own misery. Because I find my sadness artistic and inspiring. Because I think I can’t be happy and inspired. Because i romanticize my pain.
Where everything I do feels pointless. When it feels like to live is to forever be in pain. It doesn’t matter how far ahead in the future I look, a continuous wave of miser overlooks it. No matter what city I move to. No matter who I cut-or add-to my life. No matter what job I am apart of.
I have post hike blues without even ever hiking a thru-trail and if this misery is going to be heightened then I don’t want to be apart of it.
I have already discovered that this life is full of unnecessary distress because there is no point to life. Happy or Sad were all going to die and cease to exist FOREVER. None of this life matters. Theres no point to it, and to whoever says its to “reproduce” why would ANYONE want to subject their children to this life when all it is is unnecessary pain.
I Know why I am this upset and its because I have had to live through tantalizing events that make me “strong” but all for what. If this strength doesn’t mean anything in the end then what is the point.
I could’ve have been born in South Sudan, lived a simpler life where my role as a woman was to cook and have children and I wouldn’t even hate my life because everyone around me would be doing it. We would all share a future together. Unlike here where I find every situation I encounter to be problematic. Children? HAHAH NA. COOKING? HAHAH NAH. BEING SUBMISSIVE? HAHAHA HELL NO.
Everyone is selling me a future that is cheating me out of my happiness.
Its hilarious. I know. A couple months ago I was riding on this wave of happiness because I finished college with good grades and I didn’t hate it.