"Desire to be seen, to be known.....

Longing to be seen with eyes that see beyond the depthless veil

With a heart that sees ocean chasms, and not just surface waters.....

To distinguish self among the masses

I want to be seen.

I want to be known. I want to be needed, I want to be loved. Not for what I am... but for who I am.

Please see me.... please know me.....

Longing for this ...... yet afraid.

The voices are silent, and the screams are muted....

Only thoughts..... gestures without an interpreter.

Radio waves, with no speaker to transfer the signals.

Trapped inside this skin... looking out from within

From within walls that barricade me.... walls of fear.

Aware of everything... of every eye that watches me, of every ear that hears my voice.

So I blend in, a chameleon changing colors, desperate to hide.

Yet longing to be seen... longing to be KNOWN.

I want you to know me, but I am afraid.

Thoughts and feelings pounding to the surface, but unable to break through

Identity, self, life, trapped behind a wall of apprehension

This fear is my *******, this trepidation my yoke.

I want you to hear me.....

but when I need words the most, they become opaque... frightened and scattered by the thundering fear.

Like a flurry of birds scattering at the sound of an impending storm.

I want you to see me.....

but my confidence cowers... my head lowers, my eyes fall, I turn and walk away.

I hide in my mind again.... I seek shelter with my thoughts.

My own introspect only a temporary comfort.

I want you to hear me, to see me, to know me..... KNOW ME. Please know me. I want you to know me. Help me to break free.

See me. Hear me.....
Not with your eyes... not with your ears.... not like the world sees and hears.

but see me with your heart, and to hear me with your soul.

I am drowning in my own fear and self induced entrapment

Pull me free, pull me to the surface of this drowning pool...

Revive me, bring me back to life, breath air into my lungs......

I want to die, so I can be reborn. Die, and be stripped of this fear. I want to face death, so that this fear can finally perish with the ashes."

My is mind is not my own today,
so please excuse these words i say.
I am not entirely sure what i think and feel,
its difficult to differentiate what is and isn't real.
My mind is playing games on me,
blurring my sight, so i struggle to see,
to undress reality.
There are holes in my thinking,
dents and Im sinking.
Deeper and deeper,
my fight growing weaker and weaker.
My mind is not my own today,
all logic it seems to have been thrown away,
So i sit in dismay,
and apologise
for these vacant eyes.

~

At my expense


Sawdust coated planks of worn grain and smooth edges find
toes tapping inside hard brown leather shoes,
not polished since Sunday’s *** luck
allowing scuffs formed on lonely sidewalks
to glow beneath the lights, suspended over head

The din of the crowd plays to my nerves, (I peek from the side)
Aunt Lucy’s pleated skirt moves involuntarily
with her words as she gossips to anyone who will listen
Politicians shake hands as they take the prime seats,
balding heads blocking views and causing children to giggle

Sweat beads, runs, drips on my rented suit,
speckles of gray on white linen, charging the heat
with reckless abandon as creases relax
and I adjust my belt with the precision
of the previous wearer

Thick fabric, paisley and purple, stained by age but still
magnificent in appearance, hide me from the gathering
of locals and visitors alike…when I hear the band ring up,
happy go lucky music brings this sense of urgency
to my ever quickly beating heart

Stage hands bounce back and forth and a thumbs up
lets me know it is time…
music reaches a crescendo as the curtain lifts skyward
and I am faced with the reality that has all to often been a dream
and then a nightmare

I step to the front, clear my throat,
begin counting the many eyes staring at me,
searching for greatness, brilliance, charm
and I read my poem…penned the day I lost you,
the day my heart shattered, the day my world ended

No applause today, as I stand on this sad stage
gazing at gaping mouths, wide-eyed disappointment
and I pray the curtain drops as quickly as it rose
allowing the comedian to rescue the audience with
his offering of humor…at my expense

I didn't want to remember
but never tried to forget
and I almost didn't leave
yet I wouldn't go back
I wish I hadn't chosen
but wouldn't change a thing
I'm constantly humming a tune
yet without a song to sing
Feeling so claustrophobic
but afraid to venture outside
I'm sitting here hopefully
yet dwelling on goodbyes
I refuse to release more tears
but my eyes are brimming still
as I linger in warm thoughts
always confused about how I feel

Wonder what’s imagination?
Where are the seeds of imagination?
That sprouts in our mind
Sometimes dying as a sapling
Or if nurtured, can grow strong as oak
But who plants the seed in our mind
Is it imagination within an imagination?
How can one cocoon the other?
The foundation of creativity is imagination
Somewhere our mind does travel for inspiration
Does imagination inhabit any other universe?
Visiting us with its momentary flash
Providing enough light to germinate the seed
Have we deciphered the brain?
Sometimes it feels as if it is planted in our body
To control the whole nervous system
Isn't it that we are in a way powered by our imagination?
Or, am I imagining too much about the concept of imagination
For now let’s imagine we are living in the only inhabitable planet
For we have achieved so much by virtue of imagination
All that we see around us were once a figment of our imagination
Why don’t we imagine that we can accept everyone?
For what they are, and not imagine that we are superior or inferior
Maybe this imagination will really come true
For, if we can imagine, we can surely make it a reality

© Amitav (Radiance)

You and I separated long ago. The only writer
I ever loved. I try to find myself in
between your words, lingering somewhere deep
in your inspiration, but I don’t think
I’m there. You always made them up,

but I knew you better than that. Recycling
moments from the past to make a fake
love feel real. I don’t love you.
I only wish I could see your memories of me
living on through your fingertips,

the way you do through mine. We live separate
lives in the same vicinity, touching the same
people. If you had told me this years ago,
I wouldn’t have believed that even a single
degree could separate you and I.

We were each necessary for the other
to mature. My biggest fear is that I didn’t
help you grow as a writer. So what
if we matured? If being loved by me
didn’t improve your writing, then it was all

for nothing.