Why I have no friends

I don’t trust a man,
who hasn’t tested the edge of his being,
with poverty,
his confidence,
with the threat of violence,
or his resolve,
with solitude and loneliness.

They’re measures,
which every person must pass through,
to determine the fabric or who they are,
to sell the world,
their humanity,
if not the world,
then at least the person you want to associate with.

I guess that is why I am mostly alone,
my yardstick and most of society’s,
don’t measure up.
I don’t reconcile well with the mundane,
nor the flamboyantly sophisticated,
and the people I’m attracted to and they me,
ironically don’t associate with me,
in concentric circles we move to and from each other,
perpetually.

I don’t trust a woman,
who sees being and existence,
through monetary markers,
her metrics of madness,
cannot reconcile with my propensity to violence,
at the drop of a hat,
towards a man that oversteps their mark.
She can be comfortable,
with the cushion of society,
that will constantly break her fall.

She can be seen,
for all that she wants to display,
there are always other eyes,
other hearts,
mine,
will never engage,
always caged.

She has no lashes she can buy or flutter,
no sigh she can moan or mutter,
no breast, she can heave,
nothing to sell me that proves she has a real pulse,
except a wayward gaze beyond me,
and to the creator of me.

Yes, I have trust issues,
and it is not without merit,
ashamed, guilty binding seams,
I let my ability to read people,
way before they commit to me their secrets,
contain me,
but when time and time again,
there it is splayed before me,
it reinforces that I knew well the truth,
and ignored my compass,
my distrust in people,
then becomes married to the distrust in myself,
and that is a knot I can never undo.

W.E.

dear grief – 15

 

Bring a man to his knees why don’t you,
until his savage is all timid,
and his temperament livid,
and he can’t fight you with his vulnerability,
or console you with bloodied fists.

One way or the other,
you’re going to smother,
with your blatant honesty,
and impartiality,
try as I may,
to perch, or even impale,
my grief, is better suited to flight.

W.E.

dear grief – 13


What riches do I have,
that I can give,
that can expiate me,
or expiate him,
that aren’t from God to begin with.

What a fool I am,
assuming I can bribe my way,
out of grief,
out of guilt.

Or am I being held to ransom,
by my self,
of myself,
only to come to comprehension,
too late,
with too little left to give.

W.E.

-spineless

I’m not spineless,
I have an aversion to bullshit.

I’ll cry,
the hot tears,
the ones that have been buried so far inside you,
they can only be as warm as your core,
when,
and only when,
there is no bullshit,
or,
you’ve pierced that part of me,
hurt me to that core.

Otherwise,
you need me spineless.

You need me emotionally detached.

When  your world is upside down with emotions,
and you lose all sense,
Hyper-erratic, out of control,
and running on the wild bonfire of reactionary states,
you need me to rationalise,
to hold my steady hand over yours,
to stop the bleeding,
control your breathing,
and show you the order of things.

And there is order,
always order,
even in chaos,
the order even more so evident.

It’s the reason why chaos can exist.
and I, can swim in both currents.

W.E.

Art: Charcoal and Bone VIII by ~napoleoman

 

Cure for the sane

I’ve seen you at the edge of normality,
and how bored you look,
staring with trepidness,
this hyper fear,
to get near,
to the crazy insolubles,
to the protected valuables.

Did you ever think,
this fog of confusion,
this veil of seclusion,
is our choice default?

We purposely paint ourselves odd,
to be left alone by your hyper-sanity.

And you know too well
the cure for sanity,
is our insanity.

W.E.

dear grief – 9

dear grief – 9

You don’t sound like a cello,
stringing it’s sorrow,
more like a ney,
I have no idea how to blow,
soothing to play,
for those who know,
but for me,
simply a cylindrical hollow.

Am I shallow?
Perhaps indifferent,
Melancholic mellow,
Or a blackened and charred,
Fume from bellow,
blacksmith of loss,
Hardened and rigid,
Smog filled swallow.

W.E.

Music by Kudsi Erguner