Lee's Lament

Lee's Lament

What is it that he needs to say?

Is there really a point to anything?

Really, what is the use of it all?

Of all the lost dreams that he had, not to mention the fact

That his sexuality has never been fulfilled,

Even though it was due to his sexuality

That he now has this disease.

It is as if he no longer can make sense of anything with life,

Nothing.

Who cares, really?

What is the point?

Why bother?

Let him just type away in his apartment,

Listening to music,

Burning incense,

Tending to his orchid plants that will more than likely

Never bloom again.

As he has not.

he finds it hard to derive pleasure from drawing and painting as he used to.

no longer,

not even masturbation,

only a mere release.

it has only been recently that he needs to write,

lament towards the world,

of its cruelty,

of its lost hopes and dreams.

so what is the use? he asks.

why not just slice my wrists now

and get it all over and done with,

save myself future pain.

he can't bring himself to do it-

the blood

the mess

others to think and care about,

and then there is the orchid plant to care about

as it still may bloom

like myself.

why he sees this we do not know.

he no longer knows if the disease is only an excuse,

an excuse, so as to prevent him from blooming.

he is afraid of his capacity as an artist?

or perhaps afraid of expressing to others?

after all, they've all been fearful of what he has expressed

before.

he does not know,

has always asked why,

yet has never received the answer.

what is the use, really,

he asks: what is the point? so i bloom

i begin to paint and draw again,

for what?

only for this disease to take it all away from me.

it is not that he fears death. no, not that

rather the fear of disease,

emaciating away,

the way flowers do when they wilt and die,

fall out of existance.

it is in this instant he realizes

a flower cannot wilt and die if it has never bloomed

is this what he is holding on to?

is this the reason behind his fear to paint and draw again?

it is as if he is trying to murder himself the way he has been

smoking so many cigarettes, drinking so many beers.

who cares?

what is the use?

what is the point?

and why bother?

it'll be this disease that ravages my being and nothing else.

no, he claims, always trying to.

no, i must bloom, change, live and create.

i must at least try.

at least i must do that.

so he tries to write,

a sort of fertilizer to get the creative juices flowing.

perhaps once the juices are flowing he will once again

begin to paint and draw.

so he hopes anyway.

he became lost in this hope of writing to the point

of smoking far too many cigarettes and drinking too many beers always with bach playing on the near obsolete

record album player and

incence burning.

and so he wrote one evening, this:

lay on bed of never-ending transparent realities

as i struggle to focus on my dreams.

uncertain of my own thoughts and emotions

i continually try to validate them in a reality i know not.

existing beyond recognition

i stand alone

with sex organs in hand

encompassed with musical tones that beckon.

i cannot fly as of yet

so i am certain of my own existence in a way

i do not understand.

and it was later he wrote this:

the incense burns

and so do i

my thoughts evaporating into the chaos around me.

i've nothing to hold on to

save for the moment

for only it matters

anymore.

of secret gardens that exist beneath my soul

i fear of discovering

for fear of hearing my own voice.

it was later, another time,

the middle of the night. he had awoken in a cold sweat.

not fearful, just alone,

and he wrote the following, had to,

it was compulsive almost.

it is only within the comfort of my own bed

i stroke penis

with fantasies in mind

needing expression

that i spill out on sheets

then weep into pillows

for one to understand

love.

Lee Barrett- 1995

Alone in Vancouver