Intimacy is still possible,
with people who hate one another,
this often happens,
when you stare in the mirror long enough,
what’s different then,
in being enthralled and appalled at once,
reconciling and irreconcilable,
in a union of secret eloping with your inner most bits.
Maybe I’m too romantically inclined.
Is it too much to be asked,
to be ruined in mind,
wretchedly unfixed in state,
mad with inability,
scathing walls for a scent of the past.
Ah what a little neuroticism does for the soul.
If you can’t at all be haunted by something,
I fail to see how you could pique my interest.
It’s not that I want to heal you either,
but I do want my own misery to be reciprocated.
That kind of companionship,
the guarded chastity inspite of the allure,
wets the palate with prose.
No one will believe in your cause,
the agenda will always surface to the top.
Instead of people empathising with you,
standing alongside you,
even if in disagreement with you,
they’ll see through your need for attention,
and treat you accordingly.
And how do we treat,
the most common seekers of attention,
that is, children?
Like they’re incapable
How ironic then,
that you act so childishly,
yet expect to be treated like a capable adult.
The lustre of the outside world has lost its appeal,
blossoming doesn’t mean anything more than a closer step to dying,
just another vying,
ornamental display of superficiality,
a one way ticket to mortality,
and when the petals wither away,
down drops the seeds of vitality,
ironically, that life giving force,
the soul of this fleshen cycle,
is always an inside thing.
Why then are you afraid of folding,
of caving inside until you are outwardly nothing.
It’s easy to remain unperturbed,
when you’re a far worse critic of yourself,
than they could ever be.
Amongst all the noise,
and scum scattered about,
I’m the fighting Temeraire,
carving up the sea.
I am fluent in alone,
the language of solitude; a poetic sage,
translating all this quiet,
is so habitual,
and I oblige with tattooed fingers,
and let you have me on a page.
Of what use do I have for a love that I cannot hurt with,
a love that leaves no scars.
How do I leave road maps back to you?
Knots in a rope,
a leaf trail,
footprints that return me into your soul.
I’m not deceived by a love that is sanitised and unwilling to scold,
smooth mountains never make much for climbing.
There’s nothing that excites me,
in a complicated face,
neither am I aroused,
by the curves and voluptuousness,
that makes a mockery of men.
I’d much rather the plainness of a woman,
who goes by unnoticed,
yet harbours a universe inside,
an outside wreck perhaps,
an inside wonder.