Savior, 1/31/2016, Deon Mumple

I want to save the world, be a hero; I want to change things, singlehandedly
Turn lives and hearts around, But I can’t, and I need someone to save me.
I know I don’t have to care, and some days I really don’t want to,
But I want to make a difference, I always wish I could help all of you.
But I need someone to save me.

I really want to find a way, need to reach beyond my captivity, my curse,
Through the razors that surround, afraid, still, I reach my hand out to yours
We’re all surrounded by these blades; they leave us bloody, tired, wet and cold
Let them cut me, if my blood and my effort will help you. Death makes me bold,
So, still, I reach my hand out to yours.

I want to break free of the broken roller coaster, and tell you exactly how I feel
I want to say I love you, I want you to feel what I feel for you, to know it’s real,
And the sinuous roads turn us away from together, to familiar loneliness…
Wish somehow I could comfort you, but I feel helpless and worthless.
I want you to feel what I feel for you; it’s real.

Would it help to know that a time will be, when life is a little less wild?
And when it’s terrifying, could I hold you, gentle, a father holding his child?
I watch you hurt, my heart breaks, it shatters and cuts me, again I bleed,
Sometimes my own life is too hard for me.  I’m bruised.  So if I need,
Could I hold you, like a child holding his mother?

If I reach out my hand to yours, in spite of my own uncertainty,
Would you promise to hold me when I need someone to save me?
Could you express what I feel for you? Would you have faith that it’s real?
Could I hold you, like a child holding his mother? How can our hearts heal?

My Fault, and Other Triggers (TW)

Don’t read this.   I’m just venting and it’s not worth reading.

What?  You’re still here?  Go away, I’m ranting to myself.

Begin rant.
Everything is my fault.  Sorry, world, you’re fucked.  It’s my own fault everything is my fault too, so if you have to blame something on anyone, I’m your fucking huckleberry, pals.  It’s my fault my family is a mess, it’s my fault my house is a mess, it’s my fault the world is going to hell in a handbasket.  I’m the incarnation of Satan himself, only not as clever, and if you don’t want to feel firsthand the effects of everything being my fault and everything falling apart, stay the fuck out of my orbit.

It’s my fault my house isn’t clean, because sure I could get off my ass to do it myself, or to help when someone’s in the mood, but every time I do I’m in someones fucking way, so the best thing I think I could do is sit out of everyone’s way.  And then it’s my fault for not figuring out how to get things to clean themselves because heaven knows no one is going to actually clean shit up, and if I can’t do it without being in someone’s way it won’t get done.  It’s my fault.  There isn’t room in the house for any of my shit so throw it the fuck away, and there isn’t room on the fucking planet for me unless I do what everyone else wants the way they want it done.  And stay invisible while I’m doing it. Because, it’s not about me, it’s about everyone else.  What ever everyone else wants is so much more important than what I want.

It’s my own fault I’m upset about life, because my emotions are my own responsibility, I should have better control over my triggers.  It’s my fault because I picked my relationships and what I did to them was to fuck them up.  It’s my fault I’m not Mary Fucking Poppins.  I should just be able to do everything and fix everything and it should magically hold together for 60 years after I’m dead.  It’s my fault I’m not rich, it’s my fault I’m not a skilled plumber, auto mechanic, welder, master carpenter, interior decorator, metalworker, and fixer of whatever other shit needs to be fixed, and all this of course I should be able to do without making any mess of course.  And it’s my fault I’m not a great and rich and famous writer too.

Yup, somebody shit in my cornflakes.  No, not literally.  But it made me mad and I needed to say something about it and nobody wants to hear my shit because it’s my shit and it’s stupid and it doesn’t matter to anyone in my house;  it’ll pass and they’ll expect me to suppress my triggers while trying to understand and accommodate that it’s my fault they’re pissed off and screaming because somebody shit in their cornflakes and I’m the one being passive-aggressive, because I’m not allowed to have an outlet.

It’s my fault I’m not satisfied and that’s the truth, because if I want something, and trust me, I want something a lot, I shouldn’t want what I want because I should be fully satisfied with whatever’s already before me, what people are willing to provide should be enough, I should be more Catholic than Protestant, or better still completely puritanical, and live in dread fear of whatever I want being sinful and in bad taste.

And on the flipside of that, it’s my fault nothing I do satisfies anyone, it’s never enough, it’s inadequate, it’s too small, it’s too big, it takes too long, it doesn’t look good enough or like what was expected.  Unless it’s a crisis for them and they need it and it’s fucking perfect , and then tomorrow it won’t be remembered and today it won’t be received with gratitude.  Someone will throw a fit and make me feel like it was all worthless, like me.

Sometimes, like now, I want the fuck out.  This sucks.

Oh look, everyone ELSE left, so now I can do some chores or something.  Not that anyone cares.  I’m Eeyore.  Except I swear.  I swear I live with people who can be real fucking ass holes sometimes.  And I’m not allowed to have negative (counterproductive) feelings about that because they’re my damned family.  I’m sorry to my family too.  Because it’s my fault it sucks.  And I’m sure it sucks for them, because I make it suck. So I’m sorry to my family too.


And I’m sorry for venting today.  But it’s better to write than to cut, or hit, or alcoholic, or worse.  And, if you’re still here, I’m sorry I made you read this, because that’s my fault too.

Rant over.  I’m sorry.

Bitch Love Song

I’m in love; she’s a bitch.  People tell me so,
I don’t care, you know where I’ll tell you to go,
We’re a match because I choose love anyway,
I don’t care what the haters all feel obliged to say,

She’s aging, I don’t care, she’s so beautiful,
And her temper’s as hot as her ass, flammable,
She scares anyone who’s ever made her mad,
But she’s better than anyone else ever had.

When she yells, I yell back, but we never hit,
We know there are limits, who needs abuse? Shit!
We know when love’s not love, and we know ours is true.
When she says, “Fuck you, Deon,” I say “I’d love to.”
(and that’s no joke, I always do)

We know when love’s not love, and we know ours is true.
When she says, “Fuck you, Deon,” I say “I’d love to.”

She doesn’t want to laugh, but she smiles a bit,
And she’s still mad as hell but I know she’ll quit,
It’s the ultimate compliment, I won,
By loving her completely, so fucking fun,

And she loves me back, too, even when we fight,
It doesn’t matter which one of us is right,
It’s her, damn it, I know, so shut up already,
It’s my fault even when it’s her fault, she tells me.

It’s my fault when she’s mad and I’ll admit that,
You can say she’s a bitch; I’m her perfect match,
Frequently, it’s because I’m being an ass,
But we can love each other even when we clash:

We know when love is love, and we know ours is true.
When she says, “Fuck you, Deon,” I say “I’d love to.”

Poetry Telling Struggles, Discovery

Poetry Telling Struggles, Discovery
1/27/2016, Deon Mumple (Acrostic)

i’m  a wrIter no one knows.
i tell the story, this is How it goes:
we try, Leaving our  pAsts at breakneck speed,
far too Often without The things we know we need,
as the oVerture’s are  Ending before we understand,
going bEyond us, way  before we’re ready, and the band
doesn’t   pause at all,  Leading the dance, we’re breathless,
we can Yell and fight, It’s all the same big mess
if  we  dO, or we cry in Frustrated surrender,
pray,  bUt does  it mattEr?

Does prayer get answered yes at a whimsical discretion,
Making us struggle, even seeking His direction?

The Story of the Johnny Rotten

For some reason today I’ve had this song in my head and it won’t go away.

It reminds me that “once you’re gone, you can’t come back.”  And it’s accompanied by lovely waves and people having fun. And with that in mind, I’m praying for all my friends who share episodes of depression and waves going up and down, and aren’t having any fun.  Mine really really suck, but a lot of others I think have it even worse than me. FUCK depression, FUCK bipolar, FUCK YOU FUCKYOU FUUUUUCCCKYOOUUUUU! I hate the way this thing beats everyone up, and it’s literally all inside our heads but it takes our energy and throws us around like helpless rag dolls in a muddy washing machine. It’s no wonder some people try to escape in any way they can.  I just pray you won’t give up like so many do.  But we’re drowning and we can’t escape until it lets go for a second, and that’s never long enough. What do you do when you don’t know what to do? Well, I panic, I rage, I cry at random, I clean, I become a zombie all except the “braaaaaaiiiiinnnnnnsss!” part (because I don’t have those).  And I write, in spite of my lack of “braaaaiiiiiiiinnnnnnnssss.”  Sorry, readers.

I love this:

for a couple of reasons:

First, it should remind people who don’t understand that “there’s more to the picture than meets the eye.” Develop some fucking empathy, ass holes. We already feel like shit, and we don’t need people telling us more about how we should feel like shit, and giving us more reasons to feel like shit.  We need encouragement and support and love, and ice cream and chocolate, and rock and roll music, and a hot bath or shower, and time and grace, and hugs and sometimes a friend who will just be there, show up and shut the fuck up and just be there for us.  I want to be that friend, only I never learned how to shut the fuck up.  So if that’s what you need, I’m sorry.

I heard my daughter really struggling last night through an episode. She really needs a day off, and so do I. Or three. Thank God she has my work ethic, it’s another thing that makes me REALLY just DAMNED proud of her. Both of my teen kids might have this too? FUUUCKKK ME! So I’ve started to just let them scream and cry and monitor for self-harm. I know in my head this thing sucks dirt and I know what I feel like, so I get that my kids just need to do themselves and vent it, with my support and encouragement. I just hugged them both last night.  I don’t KNOW whether they have it or if it’s normal teen angst, or if this was a consequence of her particular frequency and arrival of “shark week.”  But I’ve watched them both deal with signs of depression, so I pray.  And hug.  And pray again.  And hug some more.  I don’t see a regular, repeating cycle in them yet, and I hope I don’t.  I hope they don’t inherit this thing.  I’m sorry, to everyone in my life, that I have traits that affect them and the people around them, and I affect everyone around me, in ways that aren’t always positive.  And I’m sorry if I’m passing it on.

Secondly, it reminds me that even though someone might look, or feel, like they were “rode hard and put away wet,” as the saying goes, they can still BE FUCKING AWESOME.  I wish I could know this of myself, but I know it of all my friends here.  I pray for all of you to take care of yourselves and try to get into a habit of finding one way every day to love yourself in spite of all the confusing communication, from the world and from inside your head.  “Hey, Hey, My, My” this has been a moment of civility and compassion amid my own shit.

Thirdly, it reminds me that “You paid for this and they give you that.”  And then there’s a harmonica for emphasis.  It reminds me that I’m not alone in my disappointment with life, the universe and everything.  Sometimes it sucks and I don’t have the energy to fight it, and sometimes it sucks and I fight with all my might.  And I don’t “win,” Charlie Sheen, I still lose.  But I lose less when I have the energy to keep trying.  There’s a community of us fighters and when I have the energy and whether I do or don’t actually start “winning,” I’m going to fight for all of you too.  It’s a promise.

Fourth, “It’s better to burn out, than it is to rust” means I need to try to do something, not just sit.  In spite of my personal lack of motivation.  The first time I tried to type the word “lack,” I typed a more fitting “ack.”  Went back and fixed it and then thought, well, maybe the reader will find it amusing or encouraging.  ACK!!!  The disciplines are a coping mechanism.  If I pass it on to them, if I encourage others to fight hard to self-love and self-discipline, then I’m doing well.

And last, the faithfulness of rock and roll.  Whether it’s “rock and roll is here to stay,” or “rock and roll can never die,” I love it because it’s faithful.  Whether life is faithful to me or not, I want to be faithful.  In fact, especially when life isn’t faithful to me, I want to be a faithful friend, husband, father, son, if for no other benefit than being able to say a giant, enormous, enlarged, boldface, fat “FUCK YOU!” to all the things in life that disappoint me.

My word for the year, because Mrs. M made me pick one, is “care.”  To me it’ll mean I look for ways to show other people I care, and also remind myself to care for me too, because “love your neighbor as yourself” means exactly that.  If I love my neighbor as I love myself, and I don’t love myself, my neighbor is fucked.  And so am I.  But if I figure out how to do this, and learn I can love myself, then my neighbor might be better off.  I tried this last year and had to lean hard on everyone who was busy loving me better than I did myself and all I can say is thank you.

Be good to yourself.  And thank you for being good to me.  There’s a reason I love you back.  (Even if I sometimes hate you.  Or if you sometimes hate me.)

I’m moving on now, time for some Led Zeppelin I think.  Maybe some Metallica.

What word or expression would you choose for the year, that makes you strive harder for positive habits when life is anything but positive?  I’d love to read your responses.


I Love My Daughter

I haven’t said it enough.  My daughter is a priceless, beautiful, wonderful person who deserves everything good in life.  I pray I have shown her enough in spite of my mood swings and shitty life events and my random fits of rage directed nowhere because I can’t control life.  I pray I have shown her that if and when she gets married, the person she chooses should meet a very high bar of expectation.

She makes me laugh.  She can say the most hilarious random things and bust my laughter wide open, stopping me cold right in the middle of a rage fit.  She makes me cry.  When she’s not happy, my world is darker and I would give my last breath, my blood, my pain, or anything she asked if it would make her feel right again.  When she is sick, my heart feels helpless.  When she is angry I feel responsible and I want to do whatever I can to fix whatever’s wrong.  When she is hungry and wants a specific food I will either cook it for her, or drive to the store to get it, or the ingredients for it.  When she calls me for a ride home, any time of the day or night, I will go get her.  No questions asked.

I’m going to vacuum the carpet I asked her to vacuum two days ago.  I’m going to put away the dishes I asked her to put away yesterday.  I know I’m spoiling her.  And I’m perfectly fine with that.

Note to whoever she picks to marry:  I spoiled her because she deserves to be spoiled.  You need to continue the trend, or you aren’t worthy of her love.

I’m not sorry for spoiling my daughter, and don’t you dare fall short.  Be willing to die for her, be strong enough to live for her, and wait for her, and you’ll prove yourself adequate.

I love my daughter, and if you love her you’ll prove it.  Every day.  All the time.  No matter what.