introversion – sixty five

 

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.

W.E.

Serenade me into a haunting

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,
irreconcilable,
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 secrets,
the guarded chastity inspite of the allure,
wets the palate with prose.

W.E.

Something that has become lost on my brothers


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.

W.E.

 

writers block – 4

 

If you need to win the conversation,
you’ve lost the art of communication.

Most people talk at,
instead of to people,
over,
instead of into,
through piercing arrows,
instead of soothing aloe,
and they wonder,
why they are not heard.

And it is no different for a writer,
how can anyone receive your words,
if all you want to do is be read,
if you don’t want to run your fingers through the mind of a reader.

W.E.