why am i
in the midst of
satisfied by it?
Why are there so many beautiful ones.
There is the one who speaks in stripes. - J
The one who works with strides. - L
The one who knows with stares. - A
The one who reads with care. - R
The one with flaring red hair. - F
The one who smiles with confusion. - H
The one who desires inclusion. - E
The one who usually makes the wrong choice. - K
The one with the extremely beautiful voice. - G
Standing in the silence of loneliness,
I ponder a life with others,
A day in the sun with friends,
With family and lovers,
But instead i wait patiently,
Patiently longing for an inclusion,
Far away from my...
Russian black grass and an ornate pattere garden
pheasants basking in uncertainty
culpable designs eyeing towards Yellow book inclusion,
asks more than the obelisks shadows casting down the acers,
the mia crocus still a red mist
before laying the asphalt driveway.
in the past
and in our pain
lies the ruin
that is longing
we take our moments
of clarity and replace them
with syllables to describe
what cries inside us
plights of solitude
tail us in our
desperation for inclusion
collide with memories
dragging our eyes
to the backs of our heads
younger times, I’d lose some of my hair when bathing the sick. now older, I am not a private person. I foresee helping father with his winter gloves and him thinking I’ve returned his hands. if sick, one shouldn’t be grateful for the inclusion. there’s a shit son in all of us.
The soothsayer only smiles and whispers,
stays anticipation and decays til you kiss her.
Posture is, as much as
a broken back,
stiff and bare,
in a stare.
"I'm not acting,"
I'm retracting my opinions
backtrack to begin again.
Pinioned by inclusion;
on the right foot, left
to my conclusions.
If it's a game,
then i'm losin'.
No one on the inside understands the pain of being on the outside
It all hurts someone
There is something that hurts us all
The one thing that unites us is that we are misunderstood
Yet we misunderstand others
We fight for spots in a group as if it were a competition
Just to be happy
But my happiness shouldn't be determined by my popularity
I shouldn't be out here
I hear a whisper on a spirits curve
In vast isolation's of exaggerated stresses
Become touched with fire
My mind adrift with a beautiful squandering
Of inclusion which acquires an uncanny capacity
To breed, to reproduce to have floatations
Such flotillas of words that sail across my horizon
An armada of silent sound for such as is their rebirth
These whispered words that dot my waves
And leave my lashes blinking at their boldness
For they are the words, they are, they are the words