Pensive Ponderings

Reflections on things that matter.

A Poor Man’s Love

under_the_covers_by_hapticmimesis-d33by2y

It is easier to dig into self-pity.

It’s easier to shift blame,

To become the victim.

“Nobody likes me

Everybody hates me

I think I’m gonna eat worms!”

 

There’s a hunger deep inside of me

That feeds on pity.

Whenever bad things happen, it awakens.

It screams for attention

Like a baby screams for milk.

It cries out for it, wailing

“Look at me! Help me!

Pity me.”

 

But pity is a poor man’s love.

And when I feel unloved,

I reach for pity.

I self destruct.

Melt down.

I blow up,

hoping that the light show

Will attract the real thing I need

The love I crave that I can’t do without.

 

But it can’t.

The more I rage and cry,

The farther I drive love away.

Sometimes I use my pity parties

As power plays.

Because if you feel sorry for me, you will take care of me.

 

But pity is a poor man’s love.

Not only that but pity is a parasite.

And self-pity is a corrosive cancer.

It creates a false god out of pain.

I sacrifice the truth to this idol

In the name pity,

Not realizing that the pain is perpetuate by pity.

 

Pity cannot satisfy love-hunger

Any more than a Coke can quench my thirst.

It feels better in the moment,

but it is leaching life from my veins.

 

You see, self-pity helps me cope.

It helping me cope with insecurity

By making me the victim

And if I say “I’m sorry” enough times,

Maybe you will be kind to me,

And I can lean on your kindness,

Your pity,

Instead of increasing my own strength.

 

And self-pity helps me cope with disappointment,

Because I can’t control my surroundings,

And if I tell myself I’m worthless

The world makes more sense

Than if I tell myself there is a point

to the pain I didn’t want

that has replaced the gratification I can’t have.

If there is a point to that pain,

That means I have to endure it.

I have to subject my will to a hire one.

 

You see, I want to feel this way.

I need to, because the alternative is unbearable.

The alternative is that I must be brave.

That I must be strong.

That I must let patience have its perfect work.

That I must ensure to the end.

And that I must let God be God.

I don’t always know how to do this.

 

So I wallow in my pain

until I am ready to look up and ask God to help me,

even when I know his help will hurt worse

before it makes me feel better.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Information

This entry was posted on July 5, 2016 by in God, Poetry, Ponderings, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .
%d bloggers like this: