introversion – sixty one


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.

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.

 

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.

introversion – fifty six

Tricks of the self,
wanting unwantedness,
to the point that if you don’t get it, you starve.

Lying to your heart,
that you’ve made the decision all by yourself,
knowing deeper past that pump,
(that conspires with whatever random thought passes by),
that society doesn’t think much of your strangeness,
your aversion to conformity other than for civil discourse,
uncomfortable with the reality,
you’re unimportant unless you can sing and dance,
unless you can show and prance.

You prattle, we prattle, I prattle,
over and over and over again,
a religion if I have ever seen one,
of worshipping ones self to no avail.

Fruitless, pointless self worship.

W.E.