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.

introversion – sixty

 

It comes in throes,
it reaps before it sows,
irrespective of season,
uncaring for reason,
pulling at the clutches of your existence,
it reminds you,
loneliness is all you know.

Why then,
try your hand at social contracts,
and the social ever contracts,
until the squeeze makes you feel,
like you don’t feel at all.

W.E.

 

how to fix yourself fast


I hate myself,
but I don’t tell that to the world,
not especially in the way I walk and conduct myself.

There has to be a level of appreciation you owe,
gratitude you display,
whether you direct it to God,
or are tangling with notion of direction,
you aren’t worthy of pity,
the world owes you nothing,
this battle with self hate is there,
as a constant reminder,
call it a dangling carrot,
to aim for better.

Just because you arrange your indignation in rows,
just because you can be more broken than everyone around you,
be a little more hateful of the things you can control instead,
things inside you,
like the burning ball in your throat,
that you can’t contain,
the sweat in your palms that clenches your fists,
the vile between your teeth that seethes,
your shoulders,
and how far you extend your palm,
let all that rage and all that hurt,
force you to find fault in yourself,
and from it,
learn to soothe and embalm.

W.E.

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.