The Dump (?)

This is a poem I wrote in about twenty minutes, and then edited over a few days until I was happy with it. I was inspired after going to the tip with my father (to dispose of a bunch of tree clippings, if you're interested), and I found myself looking out over the desolation, and wondering what it would be like if we could throw away our emotions and such in a similar manner.

I planned to change the name when I tentatively named it "The Dump", hence the question mark, but I decided I liked and, and so it stayed where it was.

Originally I planned this for a short story (which would be more of a medium-length story), and I still plan on writing it. I may use this by way of introducing the narrator.

Apologies in advance for the small font, but I wanted it to retain its structure.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and I hope it makes you think.

The Dump (?)

What if I told you that there is place you can go,
That you can get to by climbing a hill, pushing through a rusted gate,
And in this place, you can dispose of all your unwanted
Emotions, Fears, Memories, Dreams, Desires;
People go there everyday, it never closes, and there, at the tip face,
As isolation blasts at them, scorching their eyes and mouths,
They pay to lose a part of themselves forever.

In this place of discarded dreams and nightmares, loves and losses,
The insubtantial waste convolutes, melds, forms into disastrous beings
Which procreate, hideous, misshapen parodies of once-human baggage.
Through the dark of night, the torturous heat of the day,
They mutate into something... other.
In this place, these demons of ours laugh mockingly, more human, perhaps, than us.

My first visit, I was nervous, but they told me
There Is Nothing To Worry About, and
We Do This All The Time;
As they expertly extracted part of me out of my head, I wished
That there was an easier way.

But who wants to remember the lost love,
The bad dreams that won't go away?
If you could get rid of it, would you?
Is comfort worth the sacrifice of self?

I don't know what I lost.
I suppose that is the point.
But it's gone, and I wish it wasn't.

See, we are the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,
It's what defines us, makes us what we are.

Without our agony, how do we find our peace?

Copyright, Blake Jolly, 2008.

PS- if you liked this (or hated it and want to rant at me) please comment.

PPS- edited on the 20/2/2007 to change the word unwanted in the first line of the second stanza thing to "discarded". Funnily, despite reading it over again looking for similarities in the lines, I missed this one every time. I found it when I was going over it in my head last night in bed. So now I've fixed it.

Regards, Blake.