Tongue tied guilt

When my lips don’t know how to dance with my tongue,
when my teeth are chattering to an orchestral clamour,
it means there is begging in my mouth,
the echo from with in,
urging, urging, urging,
purging for for a litany of words to be written.

I can do that with my hands,
like building a home,
fixing a car,
fighting a human,
I can imagine things,
manifest them through my limbs with relative ease,
I can write you your own deepest thoughts,
but this mouth meat,
is the gateway to everything that is wrong in the world,
and so I’ll leave it guarded and keep it tied like the rabid dog it is.

Why are these hands so capable though,
and silence such an easy scapegoat,
why is my tongue guilty by default,
with no fair trial at all,
and yet my hands are unshackled and free to do as they please.

It feels as though I’ve bought into it all,
that keeping your mouth shut is so rewardable,
and keeping your hands busy, also rewardable,
a convenience for mediocrity,
insurance for government and society.

Meanwhile, this heart aches to speak out,
they’ve cut my tongue into obedient pieces,
a relationship with God,
slave-hood cloaked as humility,
a closet poet,
a fixer of things only around his immediate circle.

W.E.

CREDIT: Image by Hiroharu Matsumoto

 

introversion – fifty seven

Who would of thought,
they could make a commodity,
out of introversion,
quiet folk lucratively gaining traction,
learning how to hone their art,
monetise themselves,
until they’re just as loud as extroverts.

Awkwardly unsocial,
conveniently clickable,
viral, marketable,
shyness and meekness,
now acceptable.

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.

W.E.

it’s not social anxiety

I don’t do social transactions,
a certain awkwardness that echo’s in my bones,
remind me,
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.

W.E.

introversion – fifty four

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 don’t.

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.

W.E.