'The biggest problem with communication is that we don’t listen to understand, we listen to respond.'
You trace my bottomless eyes to the pit of my stomach
You stare at the tip of my tongue,
With that sordid tang on it;
Reassure me now,
I am not the cause of it.
Taste, but not too late
The stuff of which
I am made.
I would clean the bottom
Piety of your sink
Would you hear me?
Muffled in a crowd?
Where my delusions
Of your confusions
I smell repugnance
And make nothing of it
O the fancies of tongues
Bowed, I make nothing of it
In the crowd I hear your sound
I make nothing of it
My rejoinder blaring loud
You make nothing of it
The boil of the grey water
Murky glasses unclean -
I make a run for it.
With a much more serious face nowadays,
Deeper in tone. Quick in wit.
The question now is what's wrong.
The deep thought that plagues a curious mind.
Am I wrong for smiling at such a question,
The fact that something appears to be wrong.
Thus must be it.
In fact nothing is wrong.
Just a random impulse I suppose.
To reign in as a material savior,
Something seen in flesh. The curve of eyes.
Everything would be better now, right.
Supplying you with a simple answer that appears to be solution to your unjust problem.
To what means dictates that I reveal every thought.
Just because you ask of it.
Single bodied to one word.
By then would you be justified leaving me empty.
Outside appearances are indeed deceiving then, right.
Making assumption to problematic gesture.
In the end should we both then be disappointed.
The promise of a future with no past.
Decorative in a sense.
Made to fill the gaps of silence,
If at all it eases your mind.
No, nothings wrong.
The mere fact that I like that your leading me on
Reveals a lot about how I feel about you, continuing to sit here.
In fact, I implore you to continue.
Tell me more of your infectious lies.
What do you really think of me.
Fill the gaps of my curiosity.
The single body that you speak of contains more than one word.
Educate me on the subject of your well being.
Am I worth touching on in thought.
Do I bore you this much.
Don't speak, I fear I know the answer already.
I've become immune to your poison.
I adore it so.
Outside appearances are deceiving.
Quite so, point of the matter.
You were waiting all along for me to ask you
I talk to myself;
It scares me how much I do...
Maybe I need help.
I talk to myself a lot, and imagine whole scenarios and conversations. Is that normal? I do it a lot when I'm alone. And the more I talk, the faster my mind races. The faster my mind races, the faster I talk, and so on and so forth. It scares me a bit..
In most silences there is a hint of regret
One not easily overcome.
The awkward silence of not knowing what to say.
The fear of rambling about nothing as most times
It's better to remain silent.
The after thought of finally finding the perfect thing to say,
Always after the moment has passed.
Random references, awkward stares.
I hate mental blocks.
Especially when it comes to someone that you've been thinking about all day.
Of all things in the world why is it hard to find that one perfect thing that won't
Succumb to the peer pressure of finally arriving at the moment when thought becomes
That one thing that won't make you appear completely insane to a complete stranger
The rumors are true,
Nighttime crowds, hand stuffed hoodies.
Blah blah blah. Yada yada yada.
V neck t-shirts with decals printed on the back of them.
Sweatshirts. Loose cargo shorts.
The holiday of photo galleries captured between blinking eyes.
Tickets sold half priced.
Too bad movies aren't the way they used to be.
A stigma that everything around changes.
A few empty seats, one empty stall in the men's bathroom.
A exclusively graphic depiction of unzipped blouses, unbuttoned pants.
Toilet tissue stuck to the bottom of worn shoes.
Suddenly there's a tote for whatever bag that needed to be held.
But then again we're just chatting, aren't we. Two souls with nothing to do but vandalize each other's mind.
Blah blah blah. Yada yada yada.
messing up makeup
through happy tears,
talk of our foibles,
over the years,
failures, our fears,
stoke the fire,
poke fate in the side,
and, like embers,
we slowly die,
cluster for warmth,
close our eyes,
This was the year that I learnt how to be silent.
Sometimes to allow others to speak.
Once because I was afraid.
Twice because my eyes were too full of the love in front of me to allow my lips to move.
Often because silence is solitude and I am lonely.
Every now and again because I was wary of what my voice would say.
Rarely because I was in awe but mostly because I am weary and to speak is to engage.
Of all things,
She opened my mouth and built a bridge only we knew existed.
She arranged pillar upon pillar
Of steel beams.
I struggled understanding what
To do with the left over bolts.
She grabbed my hand
Taking turns throwing them on the outskirts of where we stood.
We stood between the beams,
An incline of sights seldomly seen.
Afraid of heights she rarely looked down.
She'd bury her head in my chest
Very rarely she looked down.
Spoken words clustered in steel beams
Without fear of plunging below.