Can you hear her?

Is she blonde,
Or a cute brunnete,
Or curvy?
Or slender,
But you wouldnt understand;

She stands tall, though,

She doesn't understand my jokes, hic,

She can't see my love
Until it's perniciously obvious, hic,

Or care until I deeply know,

She deeply knows.

Maybe you can't see,
But, hic,

She wouldn't know if I fantasised about gazing in her eyes.

Soon there will be serenity, I fantasise,
While plodding along uniformly along a turbulent path,
But if a bump is too big, what should I do?
I'm not in the state to buffer in transit.

Am I walking as though I'm in the place I hope to be?
Though if I were there, I would know how to get there;
I'd be experienced in traversing this changing climate.
But I've experienced a lot, so what exaggerates my response?

Is it delusion? It's hard to tell sometimes; my desires gets ever closer.
Perhaps its a logical error; correctness is often relative in such matters.
My surroundings must contribute, but shouldn't.
Or maybe it's simply habit? Addiction?

But as time proceeds, everything becomes more convex;
Views layer on each other, with the fundamentals out of sight.
Other's views can help or, more often, obscure further.
Though still, every so often, I understand and see a little more.

Watery words
Flow across your ear,
Can you bear to hear,
Something you feel but can't see,
If you love enough.

This palace of psychology can't tell
If it's being carved from the inside.

Today I have some hope.
I hope it lasts
Past the careful tiredness of interaction,
To the investment you can hear in her voice
And feel in her form,

I hope that she hopes too,
But beyond a lustful desire,
Or lies I'll tell myself,

Though it feels refined,
Convex with experience,
It makes me giddy in anticipation,

The perfect balance between wanting
A tentative balance,
Or flowering anew.

Sometimes I forget
I can do this;
Memories last,
The emotions curate,
From depths of dashed
Hope, it feels invisible.

Sometimes I forget
The real level
Is unholily watching me above the clouds,
While I swim in a mild, synthetic sea.

I'll wait tentatively,
But not really;
I hope I don't.

I'll try to create an image of this convex feeling.

It's imperfections on a perfect painting,
Or dull colours in the sky on a beautiful day,
Or roughly shaven, golden stubble, with a part too long.

Its the sound of loneliness in a room full of extroverts,
A fire alarm blaring through a heavy metal concert.

The taste of strepsil.

Can't I decay while I progress? I want to go somewhere, and I know where, I'm helpless, since I know how to help myself, but don't want or need.

Every day is winter,
Cold, but inside its warm.

I like sitting by my fireplace,
It's tucked away where nobody else can see.

Sometimes it burns.

Do you hear the sound of all these poems,
Of heartbroken girls,
Of pained, tormented men,
That love or hate their swollen, melancholic voices.

Can you hear words, too many words that mean the same thing,
Again and again, ricocheting a message,
In person, singing the same song that everyone sings,
Or even carefully thought out words that ring to everyone who wrote it too.

Ingenuity is precious but so subjective,
But equally subjective to everyone,
Clarity sounds nice.

It sometimes hurts to think of everything at once,
So that when it comes out it is so simple.

Ingenuity can exist with clarity, but rarely does.