Paying the Debtor

Character Is Destiny

Some nights the forge is louder than the finished blade.

This is one of those nights.

Sometimes the best form of therapy is just writing things out.

CID doesn’t always look like the noble bearing after the storm—it’s the sound of a hammer strike while you’re still standing in the fire.

The poem below is raw transmission from the furnace: no tidy resolution, no forced hope, just the heat of the work while it’s still happening.

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Everything in my life is good.

How can someone like me complain?

How can I hold within my heart even the slightest measure of ungratefulness?

I’ve done the things I’ve set out to do.

Reached beyond the mark I plotted

with wish in my heart,

and delusion spotted.

And that’s all topical,

by the way.

Should we go behind the curtain?

Steer the ship that way?

Air some things out—

sort out the fray?

Is it all worth it?

If you can’t tell,

I wear the mask well.

Saying “you can’t dwell.”

But that shit doesn’t sell.

Met with some people today,

“all good things” they say.

“You’re so brave”

Even when I can’t say

Things about this guilt I stave.

Maybe my depression has the best of me.

But could I really outsource these feelings so easily?

Trauma, drama, an empty bed.

Three actually.

I fear I’ve lost my better piece,

the main source of peace,

Ah yes,

a preposterous noble indeed.

Can’t really blame it on the anxiety.

I chose this life,

Made it my wife,

Yeah—all of it.

The character rot?

I’m pouring it

Over the top

To put some lore in it

When Maybe I

should’ve been storing it.

And really what is this all about?

To stand in front of that last crowd—

Stuttering to myself.

Shuddering some muttering—

like, “hey God, send me”

“I’m here, just not on my knees—

Would it please thee

For these words to

both ease those

and appease these

selfish needs?”

No—hold on—

let me speak.

Give a testimony about

A boy who learned to pout—

Agonized with doubt—

Chased down stupid clout

well into his thirties.

To self-sabotage

As he ran away

From the inward hate

I can’t extricate.

How naive?

You think you know me?

You know what you see.

Not a scrap of what’s beneath.

Peel back enough layers,

Rewind the tape,

Pick up the pieces,

You’ll find a reprehensibility,

Tattooed into a mosaic incomplete

And a creature undeserving

of a higher power’s peace.

Lock me in a tower—

I’m no fool—

But definitely a coward.

Now—I could be wrong,

could be blind.

But If I’m trying to see meaning—

Make more, make more—

Why does it feel so defeating?

Surely I’m not who I used to be,

But you can’t see me.

You see the monster

sinking in its teeth

and clawing through your peace.

Build the ship,

Escape the tread.

Build the character,

Run from dread.

Polish the compass,

Lose a thread.

Cut the tendril,

Make it red.

Dream of a shore,

Bleed with the pen.

Weigh the ballast,

Crush the meek.

Sail the ship,

Sink it deep.

Chart the depths,

Rinse and repeat.

Same damn shame,

Running replete.

Aren’t you adorable?

You think such a deplorable,

Transmutes character as affordable?

Price tag on another soul,

Throw it in the drawer

Next to all the others

that keep pressing record.

Maybe they could be

Just the kindling

To strike the match against,

To send this pondering

Into flames billowing.

We deserve it—

No—they deserve it—

No—you deserve it.

No—wait—

I’ve got purpose.

Let’s fucking burn it.

I’m a different kind of tired.

Medical issues from the mental

Cropping up as if I’m elemental.

Stress broke through containment—

Another trip to a professional.

Hate left its temple,

And trashed the rental.

Temper threw a stone,

Straight through the meddle.

Fear changed the locks,

He won’t let me back in.

Ego cracked the code:

It’s all possible—

Look at me now—

Just not probable.

“You’re chronically fatigued.”

Could’ve told you that.

“You need better sleep hygiene.”

Demons won’t like it.

“This is reversible—don’t worry.”

Can I buy hope like this?

“Your depression is mild.”

Can you tell him?

Have I done well,

or am I just mentally ill?

Affirmations pour in,

Doubt creeps past them.

Am I chasing purpose,

or going insane?

Professional commendations

Feel like accommodations.

Maybe those drunken delusions

Changed accomplices.

You got it all wrong—

I don’t want to die.

been there before

Unlike the last time I

visited the brink

When what I really wanted

was to ask life for a drink

in the back of an ambulance—

With them lights and sirens—

Getting parched as I

wrestled the reaper.

Perhaps all this is just a call from the void.

As I said—I can’t really complain.

Things could always be better,

As they could always be worse.

The valley calls,

I answer it.

The depths demand,

I pay them.

The swell shifts,

I tow the rudder.

The line throws,

I write as it goes.

I’m just tired of chasing “better”

When it seems a lonely endeavor.

You want character?

Morality?

Philosophy?

This is my cost,

I’m just paying the debtor.

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