vinegar in poetry

when you get away from the constant criticism
the relentless pressing sense of judgement
the negativity
the crushing force of being treated like a failure
for a little while
it is like coming up for air
from down in the ocean
it is like being reborn
it is like being yourself
again

but maybe it’s just temporary

when you return
and you’re constantly told you’re dirt
and a disappointment
and a burden
and you’ve gone about everything the wrong way
and your dreams are shit
and you’re hurting everyone by trying to be
the person you feel like you’re supposed to be
it’s like waking up from a pleasant dream
and it all starts seeping back in

the anxiety
the depression
the goddamned oppressive hopelessness
you win more flies with honey than with vinegar
I’ve never reacted well to negative reinforcement
I don’t know who you crazy assholes are who can
but I guess you’re out there
I guess you’re fucking sociopaths
those of you who can absorb abuse and scorn
and have it motivate you to do better
have it drive you to prove you wrong
and good for you, I guess
but that ain’t me
that ain’t me
I ain’t no senator’s son, no
that ain’t me
that ain’t me
I don’t live to prove people wrong

I live to be happy
and help people
and when I’m told I’m scum
I internalize it
and I hide in the darkness
and I eat fatty foods
and I hate myself

I must be like a fly, brother
and I am drowning in vinegar
positivity and drive and happiness
fade away again into a long fucking winter
of being told I’m ungrateful and stupid and doomed
the snow is piling on my roof
negative reinforcement just sits there
never melting never blowing away
just waiting to cave me in
and I hate it

but for a minute there
I was myself
and I have to hold onto that
I have to hang on for dearest fucking life
because in this place, with these pressures
with this enforced mindset
that dreams are shit
and hopes are for suckers
and I am infinite fuck-up
I am drowning in vinegar

but for a minute there
I was myself
and what looks like
a dead dry creek-bed
filled with the rubble of my life
with the right kind of eyes
dry creek-beds
in the arid wilderness
they are the best place
to pan for gold

my brother is a prospector
in the deserts of Mohave
on his weekends
and he’s taught me a few things
for a minute there
I was myself
and I must be that
again