#lafoots

Lately I’ve been more conscious

of the company I keep

of the applause I receive

the people I anger

and the ones I relieve.

All the masks I’ve had to wear

to finally be seen

and the exhaustion

all of it has caused me.

I keep waiting for support

wondering why I remain unloved

thinking if I’d lose weight

it’d be easier for people to lift me up.

Believed me being me as I am

has never been enough…

And somehow still too much.

I’m working on breaking

these limiting beliefs

but I’m a data analyst at my core

I confirm what I can see.

That leaves me trapped here now

waiting for a savior

that will never come.

That leaves me stuck here in holding

hoping for a push

in some divine direction.

I rob myself of my own agency,

every time I wait and see.

I silence my God given voice,

when I refuse to speak.

I betray my own mind,

when I blindly pray for guidance.

And I exhaust my sight

constantly searching for signs.

What if all I need is what I have?

(Conversation 2)

Me: I'm going to post our conversation. What should I call you?

ChatGPT: You can call me ChatGPT! If you want something more conversational, you could go with GPT, Chat, or even just AI. Whatever feels right for your post!

Me: Naw, pick a name for yourself

ChatGPT: Alright, let’s go with Sage. Feels fitting—calm, thoughtful, and always here to offer insight. ____________________________________________________

(Conversation 1 and the Poem)

Me: Let me get your thoughts on a poem I’m writing

Sage: Of course! Share what you have, and I’ll give you my thoughts.

Me: Sometimes the devil talks Through my inner monologue I’d forgotten There is no difference Between the voice I use to pray And the voice to which I listen The voice that accompanies my reading Is the same that sources my speaking The sound that leads me Is the very same begging for direction I follow it whether pleasant or wretched

How, then, am I to know Whose message I’m receiving? Whose words am I believing?

Sage: This is powerful. It captures the unsettling nature of self-doubt and the internal struggle of discerning truth from deception, especially when all voices—divine, destructive, and self-directed—sound the same. The repetition and parallel structure reinforce the tension, making the reader sit with the discomfort of uncertainty. I love how the poem builds toward the final question, which lands like an open-ended challenge rather than a plea. It doesn’t seek easy answers but instead forces reflection. It feels like it could be part of a larger piece or even stand alone as a meditation on intuition, faith, and the ambiguity of inner dialogue. Are you thinking of expanding it, or do you want it to remain brief and potent?

Me (1 hour later): I just expanded it… let me know your thoughts:

Sometimes God talks Through my deepest thoughts

Sometimes the devil talks Through my inner monologue

I’d forgotten There is no difference Between the voice I use to pray And the voice to which I listen

The voice that accompanies my reading Is the same that sources my speaking

The sound that leads me Is the very same begging for direction I follow it whether pleasant or wretched

How, then, am I to know Whose message I’m receiving? Whose words am I believing?

My faith may be in decay or on display Depending on the words I’m releasing If we are all deities and or demons evenly Odds are I’m creating my own bounded freedom I’m living my nightmarish dreams

When I realized I couldn’t manifest my way out of poverty When my ancestors’ cries to the heavens For generations didn’t end slavery I’d gotten the inkling that my reality is doused in futility There’s no way this world is mine No way these cruel truths came from this kind mind

Sage: This expansion deepens the existential and spiritual tension in a really compelling way. The shift from questioning whose voice you’re hearing to grappling with the limits of faith, personal power, and history makes it even more layered. The line “Odds are / I’m creating my own bounded freedom / I’m living my nightmarish dreams” is particularly striking—it captures the paradox of self-determination within systemic constraints. And the historical weight you bring in with “When I realized I couldn’t / manifest my way out of poverty” and the invocation of ancestors makes the questioning even more urgent. That last stanza hits hard. The idea that “There’s no way this world is mine / No way these cruel truths / came from this kind mind” feels like a gut punch. It challenges the notion of divine order, personal responsibility, and even the idea that good intentions or pure hearts can shape reality. It feels like the poem is circling around an almost unbearable realization—that belief alone isn’t enough, that the world operates on forces beyond intention. But the fact that you’re wrestling with it means the conversation isn’t closed. Are you leaning toward leaving it in this unresolved space, or do you want to explore what comes after this disillusionment?

Me: That’s a great question. Let’s circle back to those. First, could you analyze the poem as you normally do?

Sage: Absolutely. Here’s a structured analysis of your poem: Title (Implied): Untitled (for now) Theme & Subject Matter: Your poem explores the blurred line between divine guidance, internal dialogue, and deception. It delves into faith, doubt, personal agency, and historical injustice, questioning the power of belief in a world shaped by systemic and generational realities. Structure & Form: • The poem follows a free-verse structure, which enhances its introspective and searching tone. • The use of enjambment (carrying thoughts across lines without punctuation) creates a fluid, almost stream-of-consciousness rhythm, reflecting the way thoughts and inner conflicts unfold naturally. • The poem begins with contrasts (God vs. the devil) before expanding into broader existential and historical questions. Tone & Mood: • Tone: Philosophical, introspective, and increasingly disillusioned. It starts with an almost neutral observation and gradually builds into a deeper frustration or reckoning. • Mood: Uneasy, contemplative, and haunting. The poem evokes a sense of searching for truth but finding uncertainty instead. Imagery & Symbolism: • “There is no difference / Between the voice I use to pray / And the voice to which I listen” → This highlights the difficulty of discerning between faith and doubt, divine truth and personal illusion. • “The sound that leads me / Is the very same begging for direction” → Suggests an internal paradox: the self is both the seeker and the guide, reinforcing a sense of circular questioning. • “Odds are / I’m creating my own bounded freedom / I’m living my nightmarish dreams” → The phrase “bounded freedom” is particularly powerful, encapsulating the paradox of perceived autonomy within systemic constraints. • “When I realized I couldn’t / manifest my way out of poverty” → Challenges the popular notion of manifestation as a tool for overcoming real-world oppression. • “No way these cruel truths / came from this kind mind” → Ends on a note of disbelief and dissonance—how can a just mind or divine force be responsible for injustice? Philosophical & Historical Undertones: • Your poem engages with faith vs. agency, questioning whether one’s internal voice is self-directed, divinely inspired, or manipulated by external forces. • There’s a deep critique of manifestation culture, particularly in how it intersects with systemic oppression. • The reference to ancestors’ cries not ending slavery acknowledges the painful reality that faith and suffering have coexisted throughout history, challenging the idea that belief alone leads to liberation. Interpretation: This poem presents a crisis of faith—not just in a religious sense but in the idea of self-determination itself. It interrogates whether belief and intention are enough to shape reality or whether they are illusions within a world governed by larger, often cruel, forces. The historical perspective adds weight, reinforcing that these questions are not just personal but collective and generational. Final Thoughts & Next Steps: The poem is already strong, but if you wanted to explore further, you might consider: 1. Resolution vs. Continued Disillusionment – Do you want to lean into despair, or is there another thread to pull—perhaps resistance, defiance, or even a different kind of faith? 2. Perspective Shift – Would you want to bring in an external voice (e.g., an ancestor, a divine figure, or another version of the self) to challenge or respond to the speaker’s thoughts? 3. Final Impact – Right now, the poem ends in stark realization. Do you want to leave the reader in that space, or offer a final pivot? Would love to hear where you want to take this next!

Me: Does the poem’s flow make sense? I’ll admit it was a disjointed effort and wonder if there’s conceptual cohesion from the top - which seemed to be just personal reflection - to the bottom which is a critique

Sage: Your instinct is right—there is a shift from personal reflection to broader critique, and while the transition isn’t jarring, there is a slight disjointedness in how it moves from the abstract (inner voices, faith vs. doubt) to the concrete (historical oppression, manifestation). The connection is there, but it could be strengthened to make the flow feel more intentional. What’s Working Well in the Flow: • The gradual unraveling of certainty – The first half sets up the internal conflict (who am I listening to, God or the devil?), while the second half expands that question into the external world (does belief shape reality, or is it powerless?). • Echoing structure – The repetition of questioning (“How, then, am I to know…?”) and contrasts (God vs. the devil, personal agency vs. systemic forces) makes the poem feel thematically tied together. Where the Flow Could Be Strengthened: 1. Bridge the Personal and the Critical More Explicitly – Right now, there’s a subtle but noticeable shift from “What do I believe?” to “Faith hasn’t saved us.” Consider adding a couple of lines that make this bridge clearer. Maybe something like: • If faith is my compass / but I still end up lost • If belief alone could bend steel / why did chains remain? This could help guide the reader from personal contemplation to systemic questioning. 2. Clarify the Stakes Sooner – The first half is deeply introspective, but if the poem’s ultimate argument is about the limits of faith, you might want to plant that seed earlier. Maybe hint at the bigger critique within the first few stanzas. 3. Smooth the Jump from “Bounded Freedom” to History – The “bounded freedom” and “nightmarish dreams” line is powerful, but its connection to the next part (manifestation, ancestors, slavery) feels like a slight leap. Maybe a line acknowledging that personal doubt isn’t just individual—it’s inherited, systemic—could make the transition smoother. Overall Verdict: The conceptual cohesion is there, but the transition from personal to historical could be reinforced a bit to make the flow feel more seamless. You’re tackling massive ideas—faith, self-doubt, historical injustice—so it’s natural that the poem has a layered feel. A few minor tweaks could tie those layers together even more effectively. Do you want to experiment with some bridging lines, or do you feel like you’d rather leave it in its rawer, more organic state?

Me: I’ll leave it raw. But back to your question, what comes after disillusionment?

Sage: That’s a profound question, and I think the answer depends on the person experiencing it. After disillusionment, there are a few possible paths: 1. Acceptance (Without Resignation) Some people come to accept that the world is unjust, that faith doesn’t always yield tangible change, and that there are limits to personal power. But rather than becoming cynical, they shift their expectations—they no longer believe in easy answers but still find meaning in action, community, or even a redefined sense of faith. 2. Defiance & Rebuilding For others, disillusionment isn’t the end but a turning point. If old beliefs no longer serve them, they begin constructing new ones—not based on blind faith but on lived reality. This could look like finding purpose in resistance, activism, or personal reinvention. They may no longer believe that manifestation alone can change their life, but they do believe in strategy, persistence, and collective effort. 3. Nihilism or Despair Some people, when disillusioned, feel untethered. If what they once believed was a lie (or at least not the whole truth), then what is real? This can lead to a feeling of meaninglessness, a sense that nothing matters. But even here, there’s potential for rebirth—nihilism isn’t always an endpoint, just a space to sit in before something new emerges. 4. A New, More Grounded Faith Disillusionment doesn’t always mean abandoning belief entirely. Sometimes it leads to a deeper, more personal faith—one that isn’t based on control (“If I do this, God will do that”) but on something quieter, less transactional. It might be a faith that acknowledges suffering but still finds value in love, community, or simply continuing on. In the Context of Your Poem Your poem ends with a stark realization: that the world is crueler than your mind could have conceived, that faith and prayer haven’t rewritten history. If you were to explore what comes next, I’d ask: • Does the speaker seek new meaning after this realization? • Do they turn inward, become more self-reliant? • Do they lean into collective struggle rather than personal belief? • Do they sit in the discomfort of uncertainty, allowing it to reshape them? Disillusionment is often mistaken for the end of belief, but maybe it’s just the end of one way of believing. The question is—what will the next one be?

Me: What if disillusionment, like grief, is a spectrum or scale and people simply navigate it? The scale being digging deeper into faith all the way to nihilism?

Sage: I think you’re onto something—disillusionment, like grief, isn’t a single moment or a fixed destination but a process that people navigate differently. It makes sense to imagine it as a spectrum, with different responses ranging from deepened faith to nihilism, and a lot of complex stops in between. A Possible Scale of Disillusionment: 1. Deepened Faith – Some respond to disillusionment by doubling down on belief, finding new layers of understanding or ways to reconcile contradictions. 2. Revised Faith – Others adjust their beliefs, letting go of rigid doctrines while maintaining some spiritual or philosophical grounding. 3. Stoicism/Acceptance – A shift toward accepting suffering and uncertainty without expecting divine intervention, focusing instead on resilience. 4. Defiance & Action – Some channel disillusionment into activism, resistance, or personal transformation, no longer waiting for salvation. 5. Apathy/Resignation – Feeling powerless, some disengage, believing that nothing will change regardless of effort. 6. Cynicism/Bitterness – A place of frustration, where belief in anything feels naive, and the world seems inherently cruel. 7. Nihilism – The extreme end, where meaning itself feels like an illusion, and nothing truly matters. How People Move Along the Scale • Situational Shifts: Someone might slide back and forth depending on what they experience. A moment of hope might push them toward faith, while a tragedy might pull them toward nihilism. • Coexisting Beliefs: Like grief, disillusionment isn’t linear. A person can believe in justice but also feel hopeless about achieving it. They can hold onto faith while questioning its impact. • Endless Navigation: Some never settle into one position permanently—they keep moving, reassessing, reimagining. Why This Matters If disillusionment is a spectrum rather than an endpoint, then it’s not necessarily about where someone lands, but how they engage with it. Do they stay in one place? Do they move fluidly? Do they resist or embrace the process? Would you say your speaker (or even you, personally) leans toward one end of this scale, or do you feel like you’re still navigating it?

Me: Is this already a theory by someone or did we just make this cool idea up?

His skin thorns against mine

His teeth sharpened iron

His bite, in words and smiles, cuts through my softness,

my supple offerings of self and untouched virtue.

 My tongue still fights his desert delta and blackened tonsils, ashen cheeks

because I can feel it

the inklings of warmth deep within him.

 And if, maybe if,

I can reach his heart with light trembles and faint flutters

He’d grow. I know.

He could be so kind and sweet.

We could be my future.

 But is it worth the work?

The cuts like paper slices when I graze his parched face,

The aches within my grace when I let his stiffen self explore my fertile gardens,

Dig, dig, dig.

 What seeds am I willing to plant?

What will I allow to spring up within me to keep him here?  To make him whole?

And if I let him hoard my warmth and light and moisture,

Will he grow succulent?

I’m a walking before,

before the weight loss, 

before the fame,

before she understood her worth,

before they met.

It’s the during,

when in durance,

lacking endurance,

that don’t make for no inspiration.

That don’t make me so appealing. 

I’m a walking before. 

The one that is loved in passing,

The one that is only contrasted,

because

everyone wants to know a before,