The lustre of the outside world has lost its appeal,
blossoming doesn’t mean anything more than a closer step to dying,
just another vying,
ornamental display of superficiality,
a one way ticket to mortality,
and when the petals wither away,
down drops the seeds of vitality,
ironically, that life giving force,
the soul of this fleshen cycle,
is always an inside thing.
Why then are you afraid of folding,
of caving inside until you are outwardly nothing.
Procrastination isn’t so bad,
not especially in this world,
where you’re being dragged down rabbit holes of consumerism,
against your own will.
My indecisiveness and over analysis of the minutest details,
suddenly becomes genius.
The lack of impulse to dive into impulses is my greatest impulse.
Now, I’m not a spineless coward,
but a patient sage,
suddenly I’m not an emotional wreck,
nor do I throw tantrums with the best of them,
when I don’t get what I want,
but I’m a composed giant,
with far greater emotional intelligence,
than most of society.
How long will you let society,
quacks in academia,
and media lure you away from goodness,
from simplicity and minimalism,
from letting spiritual intelligence,
reign supreme over being an emotional simpleton?
My procrastination isn’t a problem,
a simmering of my soul,
bringing it to just the right temperament,
to resist authority.
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.
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,
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.
if you think lip service offers you the escape,
if your repentance is marred with recurrence of the vice you want to abandon,
if you can’t regret having to regret.
How are you going to climb out of yourself,
that basal carnality,
When will you topple its reign,
choke its life to within a breath,
and make it ever grateful,
aware of the frivolity it keeps dragging you into,
making regret your staple.
Find me at the tail end of a rosary,
with sugar breath and a neck that wreaks of agar,
alone with my words,
alone with God.
Tricks of the self,
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.