At arms length,
at a girths, a kilometre or oceans away,
proximity, isn’t measured in units,
but knowledge of the paths of me.
The daunt is not in arbitrary opinions,
whipping me with venom tipped tongues,
but in intimate knowledge,
and people hearing my hums.
So introverted I remain,
they get to see nothing but the glamour,
because no one wants to hear,
the noise of your inner clamour.
Skin speaks,
gestures of normality leaves them assured,
you’re one they can walk past,
sincerity is too much to endure.
The punishment is not in all they have to say,
it’s the after party of quiet,
in which you have to live with,
what you say about yourself.
W.E.
lonerloaner 