Pride Week Weep

So I’m terrified that I will not contribute to society through my poetry or academics, I’m scared that I am and will be totally useless. That nobody will notice me or work on things with me, that whatever latent talent I have will not be discovered or put to use. Because I’m a burnt-out student and I hate being a student but it’s all I’ve ever done. It is my claim to fame, the justification of my life as a leech on society, my excess which I feel every time I realize we are being kept comfortable here with blood-oil borne out of the conflicts of elsewheres. I hate this system that I am the creme-de-la-creme of. Fuck it. I want out. I don’t want to do well in it, but that seems to be the impetus everyone else is operating under. So, what do I do from here? I want to be a punk artist or something like that. I hate my life and everything I have worked for so hard so far. Fuck this shit.

I need a new lifestyle.

Christianity is wrong about some things. My faith is deeply, deeply shaken, most of it has slipped away and I am left here questioning most everything. I have no more comfort in a faith. I have a faith in people. But that is a whole lifestyle change. That is a whole lifestyle change. I am no longer who I thought I would be for eternity. I am no longer the golden boy, the one soaring above life’s problems. There is no longer any motivation in that imagery for me now. I have fallen and I like the feeling of the ground. I like rolling in the pine needles and loam, I am grateful to sprawl here unnoticed and unashamed. “I am your gay worst nightmare,” I want to say.

“I am so grateful that you’re still seeking God,” he said, one man who is praying for me now. That makes me angry now. I am seeking some semblance of my former self, I am trying to fit the pieces back together. You didn’t know me then and you don’t know me now.

God seems to be dead. But maybe it is just our naivety that is passing, burning away in its Icarusian passion.

I actually really want to be a man-whore and sleep around and drink and smoke and dance dirty. I want these things on deep and soaringly spiritual levels. I’m going to do these things I’m sure. And You and your parents aren’t going to save me from them. What does that mean about who I am? I am not your golden boy after all. I do not have that worth any more. What worth do I have, then? What other accomplishments can I point to here? There isn’t much I guess. I don’t have many events to plug at C&G meetings. I am only this transforming force. Where is my discipline and form? I am dancing with my boundaries all day, I am totally stretched out and I am not a master of it and won’t be for a very long time. Crazy. Time to sleep—

Morning. Collis café.
I am in mourning of my former self. Good mourning America. Roll in your ashes. Deal with your shit. Feel that sadness, stop running from it. Cruise your soon-to-be-lover and fuck him. Fuck him hard.

Here, in this eating area are the queers and my Christian brothers.

I feel shame. What do I share with these people now? I have to remember that I am in good company. Good company, people who question their faith. It helps to type and not look right at the crazy words I am writing.

I have moved on. I am looking at a time of new friendships, fast lovers, new relationships, new rhythms. Maturity, really. I am mourning my golden boy boyhood. My Christian fantasy. I am in mourning. I should paint my nails black, this part of me has died, my body mind and soul are new. And they are just coming into the light, just drying their wings really, so I’m just sitting here feeling the warmth, knowing that the inevitable will happen and one day I will fly and procreate. But not now. I’m just drying out.