Ab Imo Pectore (From the Bottom of My Heart)

A rather candid look at what constitutes my melancholy psychology.

I 

With the candour of a child, 
In the recesses of my mind, 
Mem’ries compound, propound my life 
To consciousness , to inner strife. 
  
My tongue, it knows the taste of bile; 
Catharsis cures the man purblind. 
What’s purgèd from his viscera 
Is some kind of respite. 
  
But if he’s blithe to those contents, 
Is not so keen to analyse 
What satiates his appetite, 
Indulge some more some hackneyed fruit 
  
And put your body into throes 
And aches and pains familiar 
Before you plead the pain subsides, 
Unless you are a masochist. 
  
I knew one once; a sycophant 
Whose idea of pleasure was 
Quite perverse. He’d persuade naive 
Girls to participate in lewd 
  
Activities, though not against 
Their to-be wistful wills. A tryst 
Is a furtive affair. Lovers’ 
Motives are oft surreptitious. 
  
I ascertain the human heart 
To be so ensconced in matter, 
Flesh and bone, not for protection, 
But because it isn’t heeded. 
  
And not unlike Poe’s tell tale heart, 
It makes its presence known to he 
Who harbours guilt, who harbours more. 
Hark the scruples of your conscience. 
  
Abjure thoughts of concupiscence 
And listen to your moral muse. 
Allay suffering indigence 
And suffering in twos. 
  
II
  
Having emerged from pubescence, 
Adolescence into adulthood, 
Having dealt with what was latent, 
Quiescent: by quelling the qualms 
  
Of my conscience, of my stomach 
By conferring with a laden 
Tongue the laments of decadence 
To a sympathetic sweetheart 
  
Who has absolved me of my sins; 
Regression connotes remission, 
Moral progression, in my instance, 
I have resolved to live a life 
  
Of keen ethical discernment, 
Of moral rationality; 
A kind of filial piety. 
I heretofore concede to Him. 
  
I sense a nascent rebellion 
When I’m induced to contemplate 
The motives for my wanton acts. 
My motive now is to placate 
  
The child in me who grew to hate 
His absent father, to pacify 
His ceaseless crying turned to spite. 
Paternal plight was, too, the blight 
  
Of my youth, and contemptible, 
But it was too of seminal 
Value. I’ve learned indelible 
Lessons about the nature of 
  
The common man and his psyche 
By incurring the cathartic 
Release of long repressed content. 
I’m not happy, but complacent 
  
With whom I have grown to become, 
With the milieu I’ve adapted 
To with a semblance of sin and 
Independence. Happiness 
  
Is a virtue I don’t possess. 
I’ve diagnosed my condition 
As amabilis melancholia. 
Ab imo pectore. 

Reviews

[Nami Machae]

very nice :)