introversion forty six


But I understand your aversion to knowledge,
do you understand my aversion to social garbage?

I understand your need to feel loved,
do you understand my need to be loved only by the utterness of a sincerity with burnt bridges? A sincerity that can’t look back, go back or want back?

I understand your need for material to make you better than the person next to you,
do you understand my disdain for material that makes someone feel less than another?

So I guess, in reality, call me as pompous, arrogant, distant as you want, I guess we’re not even.

W.E.

-mood

-mood

It’s not enough that I’m alone,
a veil of separation is needed.

Vast, arid separation,
a mercy of sorts.

The sky doesn’t want to touch the desert,
even if their illusion says otherwise.

How did I grow into such a desensitised state,
never craving the embrace of anyone.

How do my children, my wife and others,
still find comfort in displays of affection,
knowing well my aversion.

I don’t know where I lost it,
and searching for it is as futile as combing my fingers through sandhills.

Alas it rears every now and then,
and I struggle to remain a gracious host.

W.E.

It’s either an air of chill, a wall, repulsion, dryness, or intimidation, something keeps people away.

I wonder then, if perhaps I’ve grown into this introversion.

anticipation

anticipation

Anticipation,
is an arid tongue,
hope, far flung,
poetry, unsung,
waiting, knowing,
it’s not going to come.

It’s the beating of a skin-torn drum,
hearing the murmur of your hearts hum,
for odes that wont ever be sung,
you know, you just have to succumb.

Be content without, with only, some,
putting your hand in the same hole,
knowing you’re going to be stung,
leaving surety, to the whims of the young.

Don’t despair they say,
but I’m choking on impatient lungs,
it’s no wonder people end it early,
when anticipation feels like,
waiting to become undone.

W.E.

value

value
I’m well contained within parenthesis,
try as you may to add,
you’ll only make a difference,
if you get inside me.

For that,
you’ll need to attempt multiple times,
and once inside,
can you perhaps divide me,
separate me,
work out the crux of me,
find what the sum of me means,
and become my friend.

Here’s the thing,
mathematicians are not butchers,
we leave form intact,
as much as we love to know,
the guts of every equation,
we’re purists to the core,
and don’t engage in the depth of understanding,
for appearance and popularity.

W.E.

Introversion is the new black

introversion-new-black

But where were you all,
when we were stuck inside ourselves,
like discarded books on dusty shelves,
now, all of a sudden,
you won’t judge a book by its cover,
want to get to know us,
inside us delve.

For us it’s not a trend,
not a hash tag,
we’ve been alone, discarded,
convoluted, since twelve.

You know, that age,
when we’re meant to bloom and connect,
we’re ignored,
because we internalise and reflect,
we think and dissect,
we analyse and inspect,
we won’t look outward,
nor deflect,
we find the nuts and bolts of it,
like architects,
build from the inside out,
upwards and erect.

So when you see that timid boy,
or that hidden girl,
spare a moment to reflect,
about their world,
before that insult,
before the stigma,
you carelessly hurl,
because one day you’d realise,
through all that time alone,
all that time inside,
they’ve been whipping up their character,
fortifying their soul,
and waiting for the time,
to reveal their pearls.

W.E.

If you’re not one, don’t fake it, we can see you a mile away.

self conscious – perpetuity

surreal-photography-by-martin-stranka-153
The company of an exhaust hum,
a cicada song,
heat vaporising of asphalt,
or the shore of breaths,
inwards and outwards as you sleep on my arm.

Ice cubes fighting cup walls,
conversations of people,
like I’m not in the room,
the fake smile of a girl,
who just wants to keep her job,
I don’t hate her,
I like her more,
but I wouldn’t converse with her.

Does anyone else,
look for the quietest corner of a room,
and the minute you’re sitting in it,
you’re suddenly the most noticeable person there?

Perhaps then I shouldn’t hide,
but wear the same mask everyone else does,
problem is,
even then, I know I’m wearing it.

Self consciousness,
is utter sensitivity,
a womb of paralysis,
helplessness,
to perpetual analysis.

Your ears ring,
your mind buzzes,
your body vibrates,
and your being hums.

It’s not an exhaust,
it’s not a cicada,
the waves off the asphalt are an illusion,
breath, is syncopation of your soul perspiring,
and that’s just it,
it’s all soul,
always the soul.

Where are you then,
with your works towards it?

W.E.

Art by martin stranka – meet me half way