"You're just a little too clever, now aren't you"
I was once asked.
my reply,
Was just a straight face, looking right back.

But in my head, I thought about it.
What does the word "clever" really mean?
that you know how to use your knowledge?
That you don't blow off too much steam?

But if you don't blow off steam, you're holding it in.
And if you're holding it in, it starts to hurt.
if it hurts, it only gets worse
Until it gets better.
but when does it get better?

"Clever" could mean so many things, but nobody knows for sure.
Maybe the world will never know.
but maybe that's okay,
It just gives us a reason to let nothing get old.

I'm not stuck behind my phone.
I'm simply looking at the world
for I see it a different way...
And that's something I'm extremely proud to say.

it amuses me
when people assume that i ooze with
incompetency,
when i am
the unknown fellow
their parents are always
comparing them to

have you ever been picked last?
because you're not as fast?
or maybe not as clever?

whatever...

I don't want to be the cigarette in your coat pocket
Just so you can take me out and use me
And after the high put me out and end my light -sprawled naked across my bed-just to say
"I wish we didn't do that..."

Filling me with such regret

I resist
the temptation
to become fond
of politicians
who entertain me
with clever lines
said with likeable energetic-charisma;

Instead,
I do my best
to evaluate
how a politician’s policy-proposals
will affect
the joy and happiness
of myself
and others in society.

I could do one of those
A backwards written poem
But I can't be arsed

He knows a lot,
more than we do,
he's very clever,
he's got the highest IQ.

He knows his planets
and all the universe
like his own pocket,
he knows them best.

He knows the laws
of physics and nature,
his head is one big
Encyclopedia.

But he doesn't know
one simple thing:
how salty are,
how salty are tears.

No, he doesn't know
this simple thing:
that salty are,
salty are tears.

she walks with grace
and a deep, earned sense of place
she smiles
and as laughs tickle at her waist
others around can't help but follow in haste

she has no nickname,
no joke or snicker surrounding her frame
no clever breadcrumbs
to tell the story of how she became
she simply is, and exists as a flame

she has an air of peace,
and a soft, subtle feeling of ease
she opens her lips
and as she speaks
tears from his eyes begin their leaks.

Writing like it might matter,
not sure if it ever will,
but I’m liking the patterns,

emo’s composed in prose,
everything is real,
hug from a bear kiss from a rose,

forget the reference if you don’t already get it,
just don’t forget to remember to feel,
on the stage of life everyone’s a critic,

way past the line of scrimmage,
no gimmicks it’s all real in the field,
can I get a witness to this existence,

it’s ambition mixed with persistence,
if the pen is a sword then what is the shield,
could I please get some assistance,

people sticking their nose in where they have no business,
please let’s all take a moment to yield,
life is too short and time is only an instant,

a moment can’t hold it I think I’m slippin’,
trippin’ not fallin’ blessed with omens & skills,
equipped with an awesome equilibrium & instincts,

every thing’s mixing every one’s trippin’,
releasing toxins & catching feels,
publishing photos of self that come with clever captions,

producing pieces of prose as a thesis composed of our existence,
which seems to lead to an honest way to heal,
or is at least self perceived to be something that’s significant,

though in most instants it feels like nothing matters,
a fever & chills sets in as all intentions are revealed,
silly human there’s only now no before nor after,

writing like it might matter,
not sure if it ever will,
but I’m liking the patterns,

emo’s composed in prose,
everything is real,
hug from a bear kiss from a rose…

∆ LaLux ∆

SF
2019