Reasons for writing----and the backstories that have been hidden in creativity.

Hello Readers,
I have maintained this blog for years, and had received questions every so often about where it comes from.  Sometimes people know exactly who I am referring to.  Other times, people are waaaaay off.  Sometimes it's about something I've been going through, and sometimes it's something that happened a very long time ago.
Poetry, in my opinion, is a creative outlet for feelings we are having a hard time expressing.  That being said, I will be writing explanations (to whom which I owe no one, just to clarify) in my Medium account.  You can also search my written pieces that are on this blog through 40 Story Radio tower on Medium too. 
I will link each piece I choose to have a dialog about on Medium.  So follow, if you dare!  You might learn something about yourself that you never even knew!

And as a writer, one of the things that I've always been interested in doing is actually invading your comfort space. Because that's what we're supposed to do. Get under your skin, and make you react.
-Stephen King


https://medium.com/@annekrajnak/courage-is-a-hell-of-a-thing-7321183079f4

Love to Hate me

It's easy to blame.
Talk out of both sides of your mouth.
Forgetting some inconvenience
from a tattle tell
jealous heart.

Paranoia hangs a trust
that is one lie too many.
If you can remember
what you said to me,
or the touch I had to see
broadcasting what I should
ignore in vain.

I can't feel sorry for intuition
because the ones who love to hate me
clarified it to be so.
Call it tough love.
Explain to me that no one will care
as time goes by.
Their happiness is my lonesome agreeable pessimism,
and my aches stem
from a deformation of character
I unknowingly placed
into condescending hands.

I review stupidity in bed.
Rise like I ran a marathon
shaking nuances of visions
into my head.

Tell me I am ridiculous.

Nervously laugh at my shame.
The love should be freedom
not chains,
or fused lips to dread.
To share with ignorance
criticizing much past
cursed lethargy in topics
that should be dead.

Love to hate me.
It requires energy,
and a time worth spent.
So you can sleep tonight
never worrying.
Everything is alright
while heavy sighs explain
tyranny without slumber
in a flaming bed.

The sneaking balance holds true.
I am off kilter of anything I do.
You can love to hate me.
To walk I need to first
learn how to stand up
for what is right,
and you are not.

It takes confidence in my truth.
Aren't you proud to say I doubt myself once again?
May all of your profits be sold.
The costs are an empty soul.
I nod, and smile
like I always do.
It seems easier to admit
when you aren't bothered by my bill
as long as I don't make you pay for anything.

Staying remorseful
to make sure everyone else
can receive the gain.
Because they love to hate me,
and at least I cause an emotion,
or a feeling
by words that could be better off unsaid.
I'm going to write it anyway.
Even if it means I am a stubborn, misguided brat...
like you say.
I chose to exist like this
another day.

The proof is in discouragement.
I invite you to love
even when it was decided to hate,
and for this desperation
we'll call it fate.
To karmic flows of profanity
spoken with my name.
This is the character of grudges
receiving all your blame.

They unknowingly celebrate
my wretched existence everyday.
By judging and smirking
sarcastically at my pride.
Posing great self esteem
suggested that you've never lied.

Simply, love to hate me
especially when you see me cry.
Insulting my intellegence
because I decided to live
and not die.
For courtship of worth,
and fair weathered friends...
dumbfounded mistakes to which
doesn't break,
but contorts and bends.
You know what has persistently been true.
You love to hate me,
and it will always be the same
until I comply and do exactly
what you tell me I should do.

This life isn't my own.
I bet on low priority
a remorseful thoughtless
temperamental minority
that never brings joy to mind.

Let's just see how much the unfaithful
enjoy being called out.
It's easy to blame.
Have a discussion that goes in one ear
and out the other.
Absence of precision
tells a lot about a person
who has a broken heart.

Whenever I should feel happy again
I am quickly reminded how
they love to hate me.

Ladders of Vainglory

At the ground level
debris builds around a ladder
with unsated rungs
of vainglory.
These are the bars that lead to proprium.
Ostentation supposedly misguided
as friendly conversation.

I lay back and look to the sky
numbering the bars of this estimation.
How far will I go to win your friendship?
My dignity was a cheap thrill to gasconade. 
A slight brush of hand directing movement
that I regrettably followed forward,
but only as a means to please you, vainglory. 

Your ladder is much like a see-saw
creaking and swaying
from the applause
to your disdain.  
Take my words
and use them to your liking.
Cut and sand
splintered steps
because it's only an illusion. 
A way conciet offers a favor
then becomes a victim
because I took advantage of
irresolute kindness. 

My mistakes take note of your ego. 
I can't really rise above
on this broken ladder that you provided. 
Vainglory loves to see me fail. 
When I do
expect to know
through my exploitation. 
She is only happy
if she can look down on me.