Aug 2013
(i)
I've never been so lonely. I
suppose It must be only. Me.
A brokenness that turns away a kiss.
A shadow in the shallow, shallowness.
A pointless he with missing bits of bits,
and on the face of him:
A man I cannot be.
A man I cannot be.
(ii)
A memory far from rudimentary.
The perversity of being where humans be.
In this world of mostly ghostly faces,
life gets thoroughly tasted complacently, it seems.
And every conversation is a colloquy of reservation and
nothing really means what it really means, I suppose. Who knows?
A heavy show gives way to clear velvet valleys and rocky mountain alleys
and holidays and days away are what I hear them say, except now on every single day. But in different ways. And such a waste.
Shoveling show off front televisions to clear the way for faster crummaging from things that stay. There be a safety in days and daily lives of wastage to count days wasting away. They don't see.
I've never been so lonely. I
suppose It must be only. Me.
(iii)
A lonely something. Morning.
I roam around the downward faces of tomorrow
not knowing if they notice the ground. Or just own it.
They walk round places in frowns and graceless toneless
sounds spoken but not known. Homeless but at home with it. Alone and unknown.
It's a place to frown upon as if they don't want it. An orchestra of tasteless music unopened.
Group-by-group happiness comes lonely, but somewhere I will fall
and catch it. Or perhaps I've just out grown it. Numb and matchless.
There are seems. Things and beings seen through daily scenes and
subroutines and medium curiosities dancing through the eyes of teens. Tenderly believing, it seems.
And possibilities or possible free-thinking dreams of you or of you losing me and the ability to see clearly, seem unclearly demeaned. And I mean to hear clearly these things. To be fearfully clean in hearing the meaning of what I mean to you and then seeing to believe it. Really.
I've never been so lonely. I
suppose It must be only. Me.
(iiii)*
True wisdom is dearer than all that gleams. It's where a dream is seamed. Assumed and meaned.
And I sung beautifully. I sung you to sleep. I sung you to me. With sunshine between.
Voiced and clinging to the air that sings between your wings in a careful song that lingers on, I lingered for years and king's ears rejoiced in the songful tears of lifted things. But also bringing unnecessary gifts to kings, I fear.
The golden share brings us all there alone, along with the means to cling to all wrongly, yet strongly, stringing us gently on the strings of the songs. Hearing is presumed free. But playing is lonely, so what else should I be?
The perfect pair seems to be there, and where once were unclear to me are clearly now feeling the need to be free from feeling fear in me. A feeling of being needed to be seen. And there in between the meaning - the needing to be. And beneath these things gleaming
is Me.
I've never been so lonely. I
suppose It must be only. Me.
I've never been so lonely. I
suppose It must be only. Me.
A brokenness that turns away a kiss.
A shadow in the shallow, shallowness.
A pointless he with missing bits of bits,
and on the face of him:
A man I cannot be.
A man I cannot be.
(ii)
A memory far from rudimentary.
The perversity of being where humans be.
In this world of mostly ghostly faces,
life gets thoroughly tasted complacently, it seems.
And every conversation is a colloquy of reservation and
nothing really means what it really means, I suppose. Who knows?
A heavy show gives way to clear velvet valleys and rocky mountain alleys
and holidays and days away are what I hear them say, except now on every single day. But in different ways. And such a waste.
Shoveling show off front televisions to clear the way for faster crummaging from things that stay. There be a safety in days and daily lives of wastage to count days wasting away. They don't see.
I've never been so lonely. I
suppose It must be only. Me.
(iii)
A lonely something. Morning.
I roam around the downward faces of tomorrow
not knowing if they notice the ground. Or just own it.
They walk round places in frowns and graceless toneless
sounds spoken but not known. Homeless but at home with it. Alone and unknown.
It's a place to frown upon as if they don't want it. An orchestra of tasteless music unopened.
Group-by-group happiness comes lonely, but somewhere I will fall
and catch it. Or perhaps I've just out grown it. Numb and matchless.
There are seems. Things and beings seen through daily scenes and
subroutines and medium curiosities dancing through the eyes of teens. Tenderly believing, it seems.
And possibilities or possible free-thinking dreams of you or of you losing me and the ability to see clearly, seem unclearly demeaned. And I mean to hear clearly these things. To be fearfully clean in hearing the meaning of what I mean to you and then seeing to believe it. Really.
I've never been so lonely. I
suppose It must be only. Me.
(iiii)*
True wisdom is dearer than all that gleams. It's where a dream is seamed. Assumed and meaned.
And I sung beautifully. I sung you to sleep. I sung you to me. With sunshine between.
Voiced and clinging to the air that sings between your wings in a careful song that lingers on, I lingered for years and king's ears rejoiced in the songful tears of lifted things. But also bringing unnecessary gifts to kings, I fear.
The golden share brings us all there alone, along with the means to cling to all wrongly, yet strongly, stringing us gently on the strings of the songs. Hearing is presumed free. But playing is lonely, so what else should I be?
The perfect pair seems to be there, and where once were unclear to me are clearly now feeling the need to be free from feeling fear in me. A feeling of being needed to be seen. And there in between the meaning - the needing to be. And beneath these things gleaming
is Me.
I've never been so lonely. I
suppose It must be only. Me.
Can you guess what I am?
