more genuine, more fatal

Well, after some of the last post's comments, I wanted to write something here that was maybe truer than the last.

I could be honest and say that most of that last poem started as something I wrote in my journal this past week after dealing with some diabetes issues (though it turned into an exaggerated or satirical version of someone like me... yes, another narrator (Will the real B-Go please stand up? Please stand up. Please stand up.)). Having not recieved my some of my blood testing supplies from my mail-order pharmacy, I hadn't checked my blood in three days and finally went to the university health services to get my blood tested. Turns out--surprise, surprise--it was much higher than it should have been... and I ended up purchasing my own prescription without insurance rather than continuing to wait for my order to come (it still hasn't arrived).

Not to shock anyone who is outside of what I fathom to be normal, but I would be surprised if there were people out there who didn't think about dying every now and then... and even how suicide could be so easy. As with this particular instance, I felt how simple it could be to give up on taking care of myself and this whole diabetes thing. Don't worry, I'm not going to give up... it was maybe my bitter sentiment at the time of writing that poem, but it wasn't a sticking one. It was one of those self-destructive thoughts that kind of lingers around, bugging you... but isn't something that you ever give into one-hundred percent. There was something else I meant to say here, but the thought left me.

Anyway, I still hope that no one will be concerned. I've got a Counselor (the Holy Spirit), accountibility and a head on my shoulders that I don't worry about actually carrying on any horrible misjudments or big decisions that may be founded upon lies--lies that the enemy would like all of us to believe about ourselves. As for all of this compensating and disclaiming: this post is perhaps the sort of "confession" I try to avoid, and even end up denying in my poetry. I suppose that when I write things that start out as my own true thoughts, yet I know are flawed on some very plain level--such as the whole bitterness and self-destructive tinge that the last poem had; flawed with lies--I think that I shouldn't go through with them and claim them as my own voice. I know the truth; I should be writing the truth. This point just came to me--why am I not writing more of the truth? Well, now I've got to deal with this some more... and, needless to say, not openly raw on here as it will come out in private.