Dobby is FREE

"I'm not this body. I'm not even this mind."

-Sadhguru

This tobacco & 7,000 additives smoke & the overweight body taking it in & the waste from thousands of cookies & donuts & neurochemicals of rage: norepinephrine and dopamine & the delusional, hateful, greedy thoughts & the resentments & stuck energy of “laziness” or stagnation & the thoughts thoughts thoughts ∞ & the previously created & currently out-of-use neural pathways for "real drugs" & ethanol & the self-love deficit level 99 clinger hole perceived in heart & the attachment to “spiritual” concepts & thoughts & the screens & the lifelong sadness & self hate & the narcissism, vanity, judgement, & petroleum-driven materials & materialism & the fog of confusion & the pity

will return

back to the Earth

they’re Its

not mine, yours, our ours.

Voice Shame

 A forced whisper sounds like steel on glass: automatic shame. Nobody’s heard my voice in days; do I exist?

A forced hoarseness escapes as the pressure’s built up in my heart, throat head; I don’t know what I’m going to say or what I just said: automatic hot embarrassment—irrational, nonsensical, unplanned.

Our real feelings aren’t planned, but I’ve got a feeling nobody could stand the squealing, tense off-pitch sound of my voice and that’s (part of the reason) why nobody’s here.

I once screamed too much for my Dear.

I once screamed too much for my own ears

after a life of repressed silence, recipient of narcissistic violence and attempts to control, condemn, and manipulate me;

my voice bears the scars of the fears that reticulate me.

They’re inside my throat which is itchy & hoarse.

They’re deep in my heart which is clutched & coarse.

 I keep coughing, clearing the phlegm from my throat but it’s never enough to dismantle the coat of arms on my locked down voice box.

There’s no one around to hear when she talks

so she doesn’t exist:

like wind in a decrepit old house creaks, so does the ghost of her shriek.