silence
sweet silence
like none other
despite the library door
slamming everytime
someone leaves or arrives

it seems to slam louder
when they leave

i am not perturbed
or distracted, nor am i
expecting not to be

here, alone, surrounded by books,
i just am

lamenting this place not being
as busy
as it should be
who’s fault is that?

celebrating this place not being
as busy
as it should be
guilty as charged

all these faces i see
it’s like a small town here
sometimes abandoned
sometimes inhabited

once again,
i don’t care

how can i?
my head, full of
Aurelius and Bukowski
doesn’t have space to

well, deep down,
i guess i do care
but not as much as
i suppose society begs i
should

how can i?
i’m too busy figuring out
who i truly am
and the books help, Bukowski
was correct, these philosophers are
like brothers to me and i speculate
my deep “connection” to them
to men whom i never met
yet felt more fatherly care from
than my own

maybe that’s the root

sometimes, all this reading begs the question

do i like books
more than people?
or people more
than books?

i think i know the answer,
eureka!

i love books, and individuals alike
i don’t like people
especially when they group up
in congregations and crowds,
strangers in a
can of sardines
with no space to possibly
ever care

only to survive and barely breathe
or to escape such a reality

how could i?
when they don’t
even care for themselves

it’s disheartening, really
to witness such potential
in one soul
and watch it *******
melt away
around his or her friends

around their families’
incessant influence and needs
abusing providers

consumed by their personal troubles and struggles
and vices, infected by the amplification of
a hang out
girls night
boys night
the clubs, the bars
the gossips of nonsense and ****
that simply isn’t their business

sewage

their obvious and yet
radiantly painful,
like a sunburn that isn’t on you
but hurts to look at on someone else,
avoidance of themselves
begging the following:

could these souls spend
an hour, alone, with a book
and paper and pencil?

how could they?

they’d like to, i’m sure,

but hate themselves just enough
to not be able to.

-melancholicreator

i hear your waltz, dear bird.

the soliloquy,

the melodies that pull at the strings holding what’s left
of my heart evermore.

i listen, to the shuffle of your ruffled feathers,
your light feet
dance to the creak of hardwood.

a sonical prison.
as this intrepid cell guard is
fueled by my schizophrenia,

and van gogh like delusions.

none of grandeur.

so here are my ears, one sliced from reality,
the other searching for its vibrations.

each majestic, and just as much
consequentially miserable, piano strike
marks a new set of steps for you.

and although i no longer feel,
nor see, i still hear exactly how you carry yourself.

and from that i draw insane conclusions.
from there, upon just listening,
i can imagine what your ****** expressions are like,
and from your laugh as you dwindle around this penitentiary
like a loose branch amongst gusts of wind

i can tell you’re free.

free to fly. free to feast.
free to find a new mate.
free to watch the world burn
from a bird's eye view.

just as we used to do.

free at last, most importantly from us,
more specifically from me.

and although i no longer

feel, nor see.

i still hear exactly how happy you are.

and that isn’t the most heart shattering aspect of our ordeal,

or should i say, my ordeal, to live with, alone.

because the part that really allows me to carefully and diligently pluck single strands of hair from my head as if i could somehow string out the memory of you out from my infinite depths,

is the fact that i can hear, clear as day,

another bird’s chirp,
another bird’s laugh,

another set of feet, on this waltz you’re on.

and when i say heart shattering,

i hope you hear it break, as the sounds of it
reverbs across this room’s vast loneliness.

oh, where are my van gohg like delusions now?

i’ll continue my search, since now i fully know that

you’re just gone. with the wind.

fly, my dear. and leave me, here.

to die amongst your waltz.

-melancholicreator