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.
W.E.
The most noble aspiration, is to serve.
You do realise, I’m at my most selfless,
when I am alone,
there, my servitude is exemplary.
I’m untouchable in my outward expression,
insofar you allow me to cave inside,
I’ll repay humanity what I owe it,
left to my cocoon,
watch me bloom,
watch me soon,
I’ll come with an array of colour and magnificent flutter,
please allow me the room.
W.E.
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.
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.
W.E.
The pull to be pulled away,
the attraction to exile,
I’m not awkward around you,
it’s just the repulsion of my self,
outweighs my need to be with you.
W.E.
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
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.
