Who would of thought,
they could make a commodity,
out of introversion,
quiet folk lucratively gaining traction,
learning how to hone their art,
until they’re just as loud as extroverts.
shyness and meekness,
Everywhere I look it seems that there is no stone they will leave unturned with their data mining. No small corner of anyone’s world that they won’t bring up to the surface, magnify, amplify and like a multi-level-marketing ploy, spread it around like a fad until they have milked the life out of it.
Fuck I feel so out of place and more obscure than ever.
Tricks of the self,
to the point that if you don’t get it, you starve.
Lying to your heart,
that you’ve made the decision all by yourself,
knowing deeper past that pump,
(that conspires with whatever random thought passes by),
that society doesn’t think much of your strangeness,
your aversion to conformity other than for civil discourse,
uncomfortable with the reality,
you’re unimportant unless you can sing and dance,
unless you can show and prance.
You prattle, we prattle, I prattle,
over and over and over again,
a religion if I have ever seen one,
of worshipping ones self to no avail.
Fruitless, pointless self worship.
I don’t do social transactions,
a certain awkwardness that echo’s in my bones,
ever nostalgic of all that time,
silence became my most loyal friend,
those years where I had to play pretend.
To commit to exchanges of buoyancy,
agreements of mutual detachment,
lying to ourselves that we get along,
in reality using each other for benefit.
I don’t fit well,
because I don’t know how to use people,
and you, ever the socialite,
because you’d tear into your mothers neck,
if it meant acceptance.
I can’t commit, I default,
call me socially bankrupt if you want,
deprive me of any privilege you so desire,
but please remove me from any obligation,
of forced amicability,
for the sake of pseudo civility.
What use is extravagance, opulence and abundance,
if there’s no substance?
What use is substance,
if there is no permanence?
The tear between what you want,
and what you need,
begging for a default we hide from ourselves.
Writing is how I thaw,
I’m stone cold otherwise,
leave me to my pen and I’ll warm to you.
I don’t trust men who don’t have an underlying savagery,
I don’t trust men who don’t have an overwhelming clemency,
dance somewhere in between there with the staff of Moses,
part yourself when you need to and engulf with rage otherwise.
Whether your introversion makes you write odes,
whether you write computer code,
whether your writing looks like an engineered skyscraper,
an exotic car,
a weaving of humanity through the fingers of the third world,
whether you throw yourself into the confines of a cage or between the square ropes and engage in a violence that most people wouldn’t ever dream of,
you’re writing the story of yourself, always writing.
There’s a script in the backdrop of your subconscious that is taking notes on its own. Waking to that realisation will help you manifest a calmness and direction you’ve only ever dreamt of.
The delusion of the world, in missing the point of a passive introvert is a blessing they will perhaps never comprehend.
Some people feel guilt for their passivity,
I’m controlled by a wave of mercy I have towards the undeveloped minds of men who want to remain infantile, by a knowledge I have a deep recession of savagery you’re privy never to experience.
It’s all gravy baby, but you’re still lucky I don’t fuck you up.