Compromised Focus

Screaming in basements to avoid being heard,

Typing out thoughts so patience doesn’t have to be tested,

It’s all become so routine;

Figuring out how to make the loudest noise yet remain concealed

In an absent-minded and loud world.

Exhausted at the resonance of criticism,

Flattened by the glare of chosen ignorance,

My disdain for sleep is tested by my stronger desire to avoid people.

While my body will be in far worse pain if I lay down uselessly,

It’s better than the pain of being surrounded by people

whose interactions feel like they’re done out of duty rather than hospitality.

Why believe you’re in a group when the people make you feel lonely?

Why sit next to someone who seems as though they’re deaf to your voice only?

I’m confused as to what relationships are actually supposed to do,

Especially since people seem to favor conversations on screens involving icons and abbreviations,

Rather than human engagement and sound.

Why should I see you in person when I can see you just fine on my phone screen?


Don’t waste your touch You won’t feel anything

 

 

Au revoir, à mon coeur et à mon âme

Walking pathways of death as respectful as one is able,

You find an occasional numb in the midst of being overwhelmed or unknowing of what to do and how to feel.

Faces of those who might know the area as home are illumined and regarded,

Faces of those visiting are studied as well out of curiosity,

And then those who are seeking a new home in this unfamiliar land;

They are the ones who you do your best to assure they have been seen,

While the world may seemingly pass them by.

In a world on edge,

Below ground can be a place to find peace.

When walking caverns that have become hallowed halls of history,

A certain stillness is found even when actively observing your surroundings;

knowing you’ve temporarily escaped the chaos and noise of society above.

In refining one’s self, you find that you also lose pieces of your “self”;

It makes you wonder if it’ll all be worthwhile,

or if it will be just another phase or season.

Something meant for a scrapbook rather than a defining step forward as a human,

Compulsion rather than immersion.

My critical eyes have been poked many times over,

But I believe the time has come to gouge them out.

For I’d rather gain knowledge blindly and objectively,

then have the privilege of sight but also the handicap of unneeded critique.

With bones dislocated, emotions suppressed or dead, and a mind rather empty;

What good would I pose as just another spoon fed oaf?

As I prepare to leave,

I don’t have a final destination.

As the mirror reflects a face that is familiar,

I don’t immediately acknowledge it as my own.

Maybe a shadow of someone I knew,

Or someone I’d rather forget I met.

Just a sketch of someone or something,

From a place no longer existent.

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Misunderstanding Guaranteed

 

One hand open and the other closed in a fist,

Offensively prepared in order to defend.

Straightened out after almost dying,

But why does it have to be that mortality is the only reason to try and make sense?

 

I’m amazed at what my eyes have seen,

But all the more amazed at how limited I am in perspective and insight.

My trust is much like when I try to hold your hand,

Strained at best; painful and unsure, uneasily making an effort for something desired and also frightening.

Cold winds have become a pleasure in this life with almost constant muscle pain;

While the stiffness is enhanced, it reminds me of the privilege is to be alive.

Humanity is a strange activity more often than not,

The closer you come to dying;

You may end up feeling more alive.

 

Walking a sidewalk is more akin to swimming in a sea of misinterpretation,

Surrounded by floundering intentions and emotions.

Masked attendants stand at corners waiting to cross the street,

When they can’t even understand how to interact with another human being.

Any questions?

Don’t expect an answer.

—————————————————–

 

 

Retiring from Performance

I had a most empowering moment of powerlessness today,

As I sat hoping to find calm in a cold Autumn breeze.

For as long as I can remember,

I’ve felt like someone or something “other” than most anyone you could meet,

As if I was some sort of twisted concoction that ended up becoming human.

My otherness hasn’t faded away,

but I don’t see it as anything of significance.

No longer is it a burden nor is it something to be proud of,

It is just part of my existence.

With this, I’ve also found that all wonderment of why I may not be able to connect with people has been spent.

I’m not saying there isn’t a single person I connect with,

And this isn’t a melodramatic cry of woe is me.

But I continue to show kindness to people that I all too often look at in the midst of maybe our fourth or fifth conversation,

And I can see clearly that they’re ready to exit as long as they can do it “politely”.

If they want to be polite,

Don’t waste my damn time.

If I’m just not your “type”,

Please just say from the beginning,

I don’t even care if it’s a pre-judgment that ends up being your tool to judge me;

The quicker you decide there is no need to know my name,

The longer I have of my day to use in a more practical way as opposed to feeding your ego.

It may be called a “first impression” but if you’re waiting for me to impress you,

You might want to sit down and get comfortable.

It’s not that I’m boring,

But I’m sure as hell not a circus monkey.

I’m better at saying goodbye than I am at saying hello,

I’m not withdrawing or refusing to try;

I’ve just never had time to waste and I have places to go.


Taped Together

Reacting faster than an Olympic runner,

Spitting out words to form a white flag emblazoned with red blotch;

Is it blood, paint, food coloring?

No one asks, so it doesn’t seem it matters.

Walking away with words muttered that would make any elder cringe in horror,

Attempting to wonder what it’s like to “blend in”.

What it’s like to be more “appealing to others”.

I guess part of my problem has been buying into this whole thing of being special,

What the hell does that even mean?

Why am I living by a greeting card companies overplayed dream?

I’m certainly not the first “rebel” nor will I be the last,

And as for being “in my head” or “private” as those who have determined themselves “respectful” call it,

Do you think anyone ever tries to wonder or ask why I’ve become so quiet?

Sure, the probing questions come like a department store having a liquidation sale.

100 “how are you’s” for the price of 1 on aisle 5, right next to the ipecac.

50 “Are you feeling okay’s” for the price of 1 on aisle 3, which is our sporting good department; this way you can ask someone a petty question, and then the person you asked the question can do exactly what they feel is an appropriate response to your question by having a variety of objects that can inflict pain on the one who spoke.

Creative writing, I miss doing that; I’ve become so accustomed to needing a life story spiel for the next 5 people who couldn’t care less

that my writing has turned into this mess.

The occasional rant here,

An actual attempt at journalism there,

Angry tirades galore,

And the occasional opus of woe.

Feral identity is much easier to acclimate to in a world that seems set on wanting to be everywhere else they aren’t at any given moment.

Wishing things were different, easier, better, faster;

The dreams dreamed solely for the sake of indulgence and some sort of twisted idea of what utopia could be if it were ever possible.

But even the utopia that came in the form of a series of colonies and led to a country had the bottom break right out from under it,

and it was very much the hands that built that lovely utopian dream that broke into unrecognizable pieces of garbage.

Waste isn’t free and neither are these words no matter how scattered they may be.

Thankfully this entry is over, and another is unknown if it will ever exist.