introversion – fifty three


I like lonely things,
no, I’m obsessed with them.

When everyone is chasing the tail end of importance,
clawing at finding semblance,
I’m content to eat the crumbs of their efforts,
or so I tell myself.

Perhaps I love all this solitude,
because it makes me the only isolated thing,
in a world that is so magnetised to each other,
in a backdrop so filled with noise,
it is hard to stand out.

W.E.

 

introversion – fifty two

 

There’s only so much I can contain. I believe every introvert feels the need to come out of the cocoon, much like every extrovert want’s to eventually recluse.

Our souls don’t differ much. Despite what the world wants to keep feeding us, wish-washing our natures apart from each other, convincing the masses we are all separate from each other, that we’re such unique individuals.

We’re not!

We’re all sinew and love, all marrow and anger. We’re eyes, skin, sense and breath, and we all need peace and chaos to remind ourselves of our extremes, to remind ourselves the middle path is always more beautiful.

I’ve been quietly building myself up, and men my age are telling me, enough is enough, to let go.

I’m trying so hard to shed this shell, and my skin is aching to dance with this raging sun.

W.E.

Unlearning yourself 


​Hands up if this is default,

hands up if the guilt of self scrutiny stops you,

none of this bloat and fodder,

no fluff, no bullshit, no other.
Nothing can pull you from you,

without an ounce of arrogance,

or delusion,

still,

seeing yourself in the third person is the anchor,

you have no false allusions.
Reading yourself like a scrupulous editor,

with interest and utter diligence,

with critique and endearment,

trying to cipher significance.
All this noise and chatter,

it feels so right to want to sever my head,

there’s too much squawking,

there’s too much vying,

my souls aching to be read.
W.E.
Picture not mine 

The social con


Write,

with as much fire as you’re willing to live with.
Share,
what makes them pang for more of you.
Drip feed,
the crux of your elixir onto their palate until they taste the metallic feigning of addiction.
Even then,
Keep most of you for later.
This world wants to know everything about you,
and when it does will tell you that you really don’t know yourself,
so it can sell you back to yourself.
W.E.

Empowerment


You become larger than you are,
swollen with vernacular and prose,
happy to contain and implode.

You empower yourself by having so much to say,
but in dignity holding your tongue,
by making knowledge your staple,
and sanctifying it all in your lungs.

A hold of breath,
a pause before a thought,
reducing yourself to rubble,
your ego, to naught.

All this plenitude inside,
fit for kings and queens,
quietly content, utterly observant,
hidden and unseen.

W.E.

Stumbling into myself

I seem to struggle handshaking my soul,
when I need to return to the place I know I can reconcile,
it seems, it figures out a way to remain distant,
or maybe I’m not so appealing to myself,
I scare or repulse myself,
perhaps my self has nothing in common with my soul,
and here I am, thinking I can retreat to a cocoon whenever I like,
when the reality is both my soul and my self are troubadours,
unsettled, unhappy, homeless and trying to find a way.

But the hope of acquaintance is alluring,
until then, I’ll search for the perfect line.

W.E.