It is only in the state of galvanization,
do I realize what it means to be impervious in youth.
I have a father who stresses to me this:
"Happiness is elusive."
This is the kind of statement that must be swished around in the mouth,
only to be spat back out.
"Happiness is elusive."
It is cause for concern,
really.
I will do my best in order to refuse to believe it,
to believe him.
Happiness is achieved through discovery.
I think that I may have once had a sister (in my recollection she was very pretty).
I was around her whenever it was deemed possible to do so -- it honestly wasn't too often that I could.
In the very nooks and crannies of my childhood,
if I could fall back unto the natural sublimity of it all;
I do recall that I had a sister.
Her features must have been youthful,
from what I remember she was no more than inexplicable.
If it were not so ambiguous,
I might feel more inclined to speak with her again some day.
The past is a scary thing.
I feel pain in thinking of the lengths behind me,
for what I have cultivated is sour.
Recently a good friend accused me of this:
"Being a recluse, spiteful, selfish person."
Her notion both confused and throttled me,
and only afterward did she speak in such a fervently aural tone:
"That is o.k., you're only human after all."
This is the very comment that sliced my being into a duality,
leaving me to write poetry in order to attempt to find higher acceptance.
Wisdom is a well, funny euphemism for delusion;
And in my youth I am impervious.

It is not so painful as to experience physical grief --
I wonder what it is like to feel.
Numbness is an aphrodisiac to the ones who experience far to much --
to me it is but the metaphorical hell.
So many people that pass me by,
on hectic evenings in the city;
They are happy--
I smile.
Envy reigns and I act like an adult.

I was asked something today,
and at most I could only leave the subject at an indifferent tone.
It left me to question the tolerance of my own tradition.
"What is happiness, what is truth?"
Imagine getting inquired with something so philosophic,
at such a time of disarray.
Happiness-- such an abused term.
Every human is in pursuit of it,
it is natural,
it is what we strive for.
Yet, being faced with the blunt, simple question;
"What is happiness?",
I stumble.
"What is truth?",
the ability to think-- existence.
What is thought?
It is everything that we (as humans in nature) prosper in.

It is of my very genuine longing,
that you might hold me at odd angles;
Inspiring, penetrating angles,
and help my breathing -or lack thereof- to be elongated.
If my moaning cannot express my uppermost gratitude,
then I am afraid, sir,
that we are both at detrimental loss.
It is funny,
I'm not very seductive at all!
I am short,
with an awkward physical disposition.
However, I control you.
It is magnificent, really.
I will moan,
and in your name I will find significance,
a reason for listening to Frank Sinatra;
lighting incense;
Becoming better.
All I have to give,
is my body-- your lust.
Moaning, penetrating angles, and lust.

What a beautiful girl to marry so young,
to waste so young.
She resorts to pencil thin features,
embracing that which is better.
Something stirs inside which she cannot comprehend,
something eventually will give.
There are things that she would never tell her husband,
the thoughts that disconcert her moral.
Something is about to give.
"Oh, Henry Miller!",
She bellows with a sigh,
what a terrifying man to break her.
"Henry Miller, Henry Miller!"
This will be what wakes her.
With bare teachings, he shook her perceptions.
He taught her of dominating aggression.
Anais Nin,
a lovely French flower,
with fair features;
She withholds power to ****** any man or women to their very knees,
"May I slip into someone more comfortable?"

It hurts to understand the notion,
you are free in ever motion.
I find fault in disillusion,
yet I fall,
and fall again.
Success is a driving,
flustering factor;
My life is hell without it.
Your ordeal I cannot reach,
nor analyze,
nor evaluate.
So I fall,
and fall again.
I'm not a lover anymore,
fighting is my mantra.
The energy I prosper in is of perpetual defense,
because of what I've done to myself.
Being a poet I should understand,
that I have problems as well as everyone else.
Yet I can't but help to let apathy,
possess me again,
and again.

This is me,
not being a fan of techno.
This is me,
fawning over a man who is.
This is I,
having a fear of not being able to live.
This is me,
speaking when there is nothing to be said.
So I speak,
speak,
and speak.
I know that silence is terrifying.
This is me,
holding up a sign bluntly advocating insecurities.
This is me,
knowing that beauty is gratifying.
This is me,
questioning that last stanza.