Some poems are written for the world,
some are just for the poets,
and others, your neck would be smitten if you divulged.
Whilst we write, at times to amuse you,
and others to confuse you,
know, the epitome of poetry,
or any art form,
is not to find human muses,
but to be so engrossed in the tapestry of the art itself,
that it becomes the muse.
No longer does a poet need anything but a word to marvel over,
a painter need anything but the coarse ridges of dried paint,
a musician drunk in a simple chord,
to be inspired into their work.
If you’re a poet,
or a writer,
and people are your muses,
you have an expiry date.
Your silent treatment is not my kryptonite,
stillness shall only grow my resolve,
you can’t harm me by your shunning,
I will catapult all that is inside into servitude and solace.
What a gift you can give me, by ignoring me.
It’s not by chance that the imaginations of writers of comics, and superhero folklore all flock to the idea of self contained and secretive introverts who are superheros.
Where does your art come from, your science, your music and innovation?
Where do the things you take for granted get thought up, who’s minds are busy at work whilst others bodies are busy using up the privileges they take for granted?
It is a rare occasion you’d find an extrovert at the helm of creation, innovation, invention and deep thought. It is rare you will see art that lasts for centuries coming from their souls. They’re just not built that way.
Next time you see a quiet person minding their own business, smile, don’t disturb them if they don’t smile back, don’t feel ignored or any less, but smile and know there is a process in place, and some of us find it hard to divert our attention so easily.
He said it like it wasn’t ever my default.
Smiling used to weigh so much less.
to bring it to surface,
carries with it,
too heavy an anchor of worldly – of wordy miseries.
Why then, would I smile with such a grim view of who I am?
There isn’t a life jacket strong enough,
to lift me out of the rip,
of murky opinion of myself.
I can’t floss my teeth,
purge my stomach,
exfoliate my skin,
enough to find it in me any more,
and fake one more pearly white,
when everything I do,
is in absence of light.
and teeth stained with what you’ve been chewing on,
aren’t very photogenic.
Like him, I don’t say much,
but in writing, I chatter and prattle,
word bloat and fat, like well fed cattle,
the cure he didn’t find, the endless rattle,
mind bend, mind broke, bludgeoned in battle.
How many a man loses this fight,
how many a father with sleepless nights,
how many lay idle, and out of sight,
dormant in quiet, you’d know not their plight.
I’ve bitten my tongue,
Until I’ve chewed off all I have to say
That is why there is no poetry from the lips,
But people recognise when it comes from the inside of you.
Belly full of anxiety,
Liver full of anger,
Gut full of, I just can’t take it any more,
Regurgitation of all you ate,
Presented like a chef’s painting, easy to palate.
Maybe why, the world is in such disarray,
Is we won’t give our bodies the time it needs,
Allow the fermenting of words,
Basement barrels of ageing wine,
Instead ready to drink the moonshine.
We want answers now,
Unable to silence and quell ourselves,
So we’ve normalised extroversion as the default,
The super-being, the all knowing, all seeing,
Rise up and be all you are by being a walking billboard,
Jingle yourself, sell yourself, be yourself,
Be all you are by parading around as all you are not.
Fake it until you make it, is still fake,
Even if you make it past everyone,
You still haven’t made it past yourself.
I haven’t met many extroverted poets,
Their tongue is usually biting them.
if you ask me
i will show you
how to be still
They are few and far between,
until you are convenient,
until touching you,
feeds a fetish,
then it is too late,
and all they get is a part of you,
but use it to complain,
forever, for the whole of you.
Sometimes we need to burn in our own way.
Some of us so hot, we’re dry ice expunging at the slightest hint of light.
Sometimes we’re being the kindest not by holding your hands,
But letting them go.
Don’t assume that by our reclusiveness we’re being anything but selfless.