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.

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Tunnel Vision

My eyes seem to roll & wander,

Yet when contact is attempted;

My gaze darts straight & narrow,

Like that of a mouse discovered outside its hole.

Endings & beginnings share imminence as part of life,

But endings seem to come much quicker than any beginning.

To start is to be patient,

To end is to be final.

In a time of newness,

There can be a blurry & almost blind quality to how things are seen;

In a time of culmination, however;

Vision is best when found to be clear in its aim.

Displacement, a both funny & cruel phenomenon;

Chosen as funny both by onlookers & occasionally those experiencing it,

Most always considered cruel by all.

And yet as long as time has been measured,

Displacement has had a firm place within society.

Out of place, I feel at home.

Mainly as an alien,

‘Tis the primary time I feel free to roam;

Going from here to there & wherever,

As I long as I remain unknown

I feel the longed after freedom to roam.

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Thrown Against the Wall

I could’ve sworn I was excited,

Or at least I was convinced that I was trying to be “excited”.

Whatever that means.

I find that I’m constantly battling cynicism,

But usually my passions are never effected.

But in the past years,

Even my passions have suddenly become quieter than the cynicism yelling in my ears.

Suddenly the tenor of Pavoratti is akin to this cynicism

that is choking the life from any passion I have.

And there I am:

Lying on my apartment floor,

exhausted from stress,

Angry about being disillusioned.

Ultimately, I’m reminded of the other things stressing me out

Only making me want to stay on the floor;

But I get up

and no I’m not fine.

But the only way I can get through the next hour or so, is by saying that I’m fine if someone asks.

Am I lying?

To a degree, yes.

But I’m more trying to silence this voice always telling me that nothing is going to work out.

I hate to say it, but I definitely have in ways resolved to faking it in order to make it.

But I want both stop and start again anew by saying:

I’m done.

Some things will in fact, not work out.

But some will, they will actually at times work out better than I could ever fathom.

From small and more temporal things,

To important and at times tangible significant decisions.

In a weird way, we wouldn’t have problems in life if weren’t able to find solutions.

The only reason problems exist at all,

Is because we as humanity are masters of complaining and having completely short sighted perspective!

May we no longer use our eyes exclusively for decoration,

But may they be used to have vision and find direction.

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