"aloofness" poems
*Unke Dar Pe Pahunchne To Paayein
Yeh Na Poocho Ke Hum Kya Kareinge
Sar Jhukana Agar Jurm Hoga
Ham Nigahon Se Sajda Kareinge*
**Once I reach the door
Spare me from asking what I will do
If blasphemous it is to prostrate my body
My gaze shall bow at the door**
*Baat Bhi Teri Rakhni Hai Saqi
Zarf Ko Bhi Na Ruswa Kareinge
Jaam De Ya Na De Aaj Hum Toh
Maikade Mein Sawera Kareinge*
**I am to keep your words too, O' Cup Bearer
And I cannot offend the cup
Whether or not you serve me tonight
I will meet my dawn at your door**
*Iss Taraf Apna Daman Jalega
Uss Taraf Unki Mehfil Chalegi
Hum Andhere Ko Ghar Mein Bulaakar
Unke Ghar Mein Ujaala Kareinge*
**Here, my life will be on fire
And there celebrations will begin at yours
I willingly invite the darkness to my abode
So that brightness may exist at yours**
*Baat Tarq-e talluq Bhi 'Anwar'
Itna Ehsaa- e-Rasm-e-Wafa Hai
Aakhiri Saans Tak Bhi Hum Unse
Berukhi Ka Na Shikwa Kareinge*
**Even after renouncing our relationship O’ Anwar
I am to maintain the ritual of faithfulness
Even unto the last breath
Never will I complain of aloofness**
— Translated by Jamil Hussain, Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
Done with thinking because that's for god to do
I am just this appendage of a greater consciousness
Ahab is blameless
in his small existence
Don't quote me
quote Herman and Freddy Nietzsche
They and their hermits
coming down from the mountains
to declare they ought to have
loved their fate all along
Amor fati
Why couldn't we have been stuck in the herd all along
guys who get love and happiness effortless
no need to spend their life in anguish
searching through tomes
found in tombs for eons and eons
enhancing their social aloofness
and their unremembered trauma
'till those sad souls give those pansies confidence
to leave an exegesis of their own
Too smart kid
that decried Christ and
the shadows of a god all around
only to find the search for truth was hopeless
Find a way to dumbly enjoy life again
and you only say again cause
that's all we can control
our memories
and we too often forget
our thought habits
the pre-neolithic mind tricks
on ourselves
Too many MLMs profiting off false mindfulness
missing the point beyond exercise
and short stress relief
Change your thought patterns to love your destiny
That's the best we have
to pretend to have control in this ̶h̶e̶l̶l̶ hole
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 8:49 AM UTC
I swallowed her and now
She lives inside me or I live
Through her, we are alive.
I’m her friend, her teenage
And fantasies, a sixty year old-
Hair and books she ever read
Long distance phone calls
And delight matched our
Love for Sujata, Mr And Mrs Iyer
And I sat on her couch on my
Despised vacations sketching
Letters to Milena, Quabbani
And we spoke of her brothers,
Generations and cafes I went.
I’m Delhi, Bangalore and
Endless conversations-
She never met and she’s my
Lost Malayalam, postcards and
A world so familiar, a childhood.
Hold your breath and relax
I’m going to stay and listen
Till you are out of stories and
I repeat, remind and you smile.
I’ll get you melodies and 60s
Harold Robbins and Nutan,
Your weirdness and aloofness.
You don’t grow old with me
I’ll live, I promise as your fonts
Visit places you walked and
Write to you all, deep- blue
Letters, deep- blue-letters.
You are my first high-heels
Strawberry fields and music system
I’ll recite you a love story
Picture him as our classic heroes
And giggle as girls sixteen and
Seventeen. You swallowed me
And I live through you, we’re alive.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
Contemplating the dark
With a life neither bright nor stark
Shrivelled and fragile inside
Aiming for wonders of the glorious mind
With the sun peeping out from ominous clouds
Undisguised, yet elusive, towards an onset of doubts
Shrouding any fallacy
Cultivating mere fantasy
And the phantom of a far-fetched imagination
To bring out an electric, yet marvellous sensation
Shut inside a mysterious cage
Grasping poetry like some sage
Aiming for aloofness
While mourning over the senseless
Forever the beauty of words is a myth
Forever superficiality is a filth
The sublime scenery of sunset swish
Warms the heart, treasuring one’s deepest wish
Via the shimmering dawn
The azure sky I so adorn
To sniff the sweet odour of nature
All alone, as solitary as ever, with a hazy future
Nobody can gauge the depth of the imaginary
And taste the splendour of the ordinary
All this simplicity unravels a cosy palace
Where art is sacred; where the aesthetic is a solace
To end up in sensuous poetry
In which there’s no calculated geometry
Where the comfort of spontaneity is soothing
And readiness is but a blessing
For in poetry, a loner like me finds her grace
For via poetry, the solitary is free to embrace
And through the line of a verse, the loner dwells a florid universe…
-07/04/07
Feb 8, 2010
Feb 8, 2010 at 2:11 AM UTC
Days are not smooth!
Start with the news of conflict
accident, enmity, extortion,
inflation and starvation!
Clogs everything at night
with music of friendship and snigger
in the platform of virtual union!
But it is full with the misfortune of
physical aloofness and cloaked darkness!
Napping on
With a belief
to get light at dawn !
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
Everyone says
"Oh, don't worry! It's just a phase."
Or even worse,
"You'll grow out of it soon."
And so you begin to think
That the quirks and smirks
You see in the mirror
When you've wiped the shower fog clear
Are somehow wrong and undesirable
To the masses of others outside your door
Even if what you see makes you happy.
And so you try to hide
Behind conformity and masks
Of aloofness,
Of apathy,
Of indifference,
Of nonchalance,
Until you yourself begin to believe
You've passed the phase!
You've grown out of it!
You're finally someone whom the world
Can pour its love and adoration on!
And so you wait for that sparkling moment,
When you go from ugly duckling
To ravishing debonair desirable swan,
Yet the days turn into weeks into months,
And finally years have passed away
But nothing happened.
And you find yourself wiping away
The shower fog with a tired hand
Only to see the quirks and smirks
That used to make you happy
Are gone and for what gain to you?
Where are the masses of adoring friends?
Where are the praises of who you've become?
You're all alone like you've always been.
But I ask you,
Is this really who you want to be?
Where's the girl who recites Chaucer?
And rolls down grassy hills?
Where is she whose snarky comments
Could hours of hilarity fill?
Where's the girl who laid bricks
Side by side with her father?
And imagined up the neighborhood
Olympics with his other two daughters?
So I'll ask you again,
Face in my mirror,
Are you happy?
Is this who we're going to be?
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
You played my heart
When I didn't know
That you were a coward
An award of aloofness
One that you wore along
That robe you hang on to
You played my heart
When I gave my all
My sincerity and core
A naive genuineness
One that I wear on my soul
The one you rolled downhill
You played my heart
When emotions strangled
My struggles to balance
As I closed off from love
The chorus of bluntness
The song you taught me
You played my heart
When you needed a muse
A bold and beautiful image
To ****** your taxed brain
A goal to hear me fall hard
As I lost guard of my life and all
You played my heart
When I felt I was going crazy
Effused with pain and cold
Strained and stressed
Lost in a jungle of the lonely
Gifted with battles and concepts
You played my heart
Then made me learn hard
That I was stronger than I was
That I was unique and visioned
That I was a capable phenomena
Able to pass on the pressed alleyway
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
The aloofness of the moon in the effervescent night
In between the clouds teasing the sight
As the lavish words of the owls permeates the air
Summoning the wolves to howl in despair
Unable to muffle the loquacious toads by the lake
While the fluid branches of the trees dance to the nocturnes of the wind
How they cradled the woods to sleep
Still there is a flurried silence
Inexplicable gloom
Emitted by the bright moon
Spreading like wild fire in the meadows
Creating eerie shadows through the glass windows
The lake glittered as if the stars have fallen in the waters
She dipped her nakedness in the aching cold
Emotionless
Her face illuminated by the reflection in the silver waters
She submerge her breath to fill her lungs
She never felt as light, numb and hollow
The moon signed as witness
To the blooming flowers that midnight
Ever hungry for the moonlight
Like her convulsing consciousness desperate for salvation
And to the corpse of the maiden afloat in the lake
The unapologetic moon stood to watch
The beautiful soul as it slowly swells
Along with melancholia
Writhing across the serene lake
-Melancholia, Margaret Austin Go
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
Love is a roller-coaster with volatile emotions emerging from within.
To deny its existence will inevitably cause irrefutable sorrow guiltier than a sin.
Tis’ is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
Oh, the wise words of Alfred Lord Tennyson, how you enlighten us from afar.
An unfathomable angst intertwined with a euphoric state of passion.
Caged with inaction yet stupefied by its glorious reaction.
This volatility is not confusion, you see.
I am witnessing myriad waves of emotions emerging from the abyss within me!
Is it true? Could it be?
Has my unconscious decided to compose a poetic tragedy out of me?
Triggering aloofness and indifference to the goodness it perceives?
Have I become too jaded to feel real love literally?
This tender feeling deriving from my soul,
Yearns to journey beyond the engrained barb-wired pine road.
However, the universe continues to reverse the roles.
Now it's apathy that causes the heartache of this man’s soul.
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
old school game
like saying exactly how i feel
when i feel it
not waiting the allocated amount
of time before responding to texts
to feign aloofness
making out outside like
when i was 17 at my parents house
afraid of getting caught
with enough surrounding trees
to obscure vision
oblivious to the freezing
nature of this rain falling upon
our skin, it's slick against
my fingers, the perfect complement
to lips connected, the sound
of rain in the background, the feel
of it falling from the brim of baseball cap
(i'm wearing one for some reason?)
the taste of peach (it was apples before)
the fumbling of hands against clothing
(where before it was inexperience,
now the cold hinders movement)
your stunted giggles as my tongue explored
the movements in sync shortly after starting
this dance feels familiar
like slow song, hands on hip
nostalgic yet current
it's something i never knew i craved
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
What he will give is the incipient bare minimum
of his heartbeat
He’ll reveal just
the washed out clamoring of his horded desire
all because there would be nothing left in his own perception
of a universe that may reduce his secret lust to nothing.
implode like terrorists on the fantasy of his greatness yet to come…
although we are born magnificent; which then gets blinded out by all the hearsay of our original sin
he won’t go too far with a notion of
blissful ‘otherness’
nor squeeze too many lemons
he’s got no room for confidence sugar stored
on his empty shelf
*however negative space can be
a good thing*
(he has heard)
he’s dumbfounded when he wants more from someone
and expects the best of their yet to be born
mind reading abilities to:
just
understand who he is
or
“be gone I say!”
…(hehehe) -writer could not help it-
scathed in baby blisters by his choices so far...
it was of course!
all the:
****** babble of growing up in his _Family of origin_/original sin
where he learned to swim so comfortably in precious
Aloneness ----- -Aloofness-
and there he became more real than ever
---Ahh well...it’s the grand excuse for
most of his life
until he feels the scratch of his riotous ‘settling for’
is bleeding ****** ******
and then one day he looks in the mirror and a ghost like
stroke (not yet manifested)
spotlights his over bearing mind to feel what it has
~done did~
disconnected with deeds of the heart
and foresight/manipulation
for naught
he then finds out his heart needed more than a cup of
tea and a scone (mid 40's)
he finds out his emotional impasse was so ****
false (almost 50)
and that his lack of allowing others in
was truly a waste of mental constructs
(Solid 51)
this I know like my own dry eyed nodding
I was him
(the now pleasure of hindsight... 55)
but all the 'do right' stuff is cohesively on time
all the contrast that created a calling for
again and again
this leaning
to love
Linaji 2011
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 12:58 AM UTC
There's always a ploy,
Complicated stratagems,
And a backup plan.
When I meet potential flirts,
I throw up my guard.
I save aloofness and pride
For the clingy one.
For the one given to thought,
I display impulse,
Expose spontaneity,
And show thoughtlessness.
For those expecting much praise,
I laugh at their face,
Disregarding some kindness,
And I spurn their wants.
But for the analyzer,
Who looks inside me--
I open up the floodgates,
I lay bare my faults,
And try to convince the man
Of every vileness
And of every cruelty
That I can muster.
For if he believes I sin,
And do so often,
Perhaps it will save him then
From the traps I'd lay
If I let myself like him,
Try to entrance him,
And lie about my dark soul.
This way, no man knows:
No man sees my tender heart,
No man knows my fears,
No man feels my true sorrow--
And my heart is saved.
But I wonder deep at night:
Am I lonely? No...
But I've run so far from love
That I'll never try again.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
I board a public bus
A graying bus driver is a woman and then morphs into a man
A normal experience within a dream
My eyes glaze over as I assume a state of aloofness
As I tend to do when surrounded by unfamiliar people
As some sort of defense mechanism
As if the otherworldly look in my eyes
Will thwart the formation of an ill intention forming in the mind of a stranger that occupies the bus with me
Just in case
Two older men are on the bus
I don't validate their existence
When I am aloof
It feels like I am the only person truly alive
Everything gradually grows dimmer
As my inner world roars as loudly as an amphitheater.
The bus drives for hours
I've never been on this bus before and I've never been to the town I am traveling to
I'm going there to check out a church
Even though I'm not a Christian
Hours pass...
I start falling asleep in my dream
The bus has no stops
Finally, the bus reaches the end of its route
I am dropped off in front of a CVS along with the other two male passengers
One scruffy old man leers at me and smiles at me
But I act as if I didn't see him
I have no idea how to get to the church
It's getting dark
All that is around is the CVS, the bus stop, and a road with an onslaught of cars driving in either direction
Why did I make this hours long trip if I didn't even know exactly where I was going?
If only I could cross the wide street to get to the other side where the bus stop for the bus back home is
But I can't
The cars were driving at fast speeds and their was a constant flow of them
So I stood in that nakedness of uncertainty and abounding possibility
Stuck and calculating
As the sun set over this foreign place I ended up in
All because I was seeking some purpose
And yet, it brought me so far away from home,
the comforts and luxuries and certainties of home
Yet, when I awoke, something deep and vital within me knew
That I will never find my purpose within the comfort of my home.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
The eyes,
cornered me to the sides,
Such same souls but seems so distant,
Trying to fit in but I seem so different,
Putting effort to open up but there's no connection,
Ended up sitting in a different direction.
The thoughts,
Coming in against all the odds,
Overpowering my positive mind,
Leaving me with all the negative signs,
Without any explanation I can find,
I can only hide behind.
The face,
Trying to act like I'm not going through some phase,
But only aloofness ended up surfacing,
Trying to clear up the misunderstanding,
Fighting inside while you started withdrawing,
Feeling helpless inside, crying.
The guilt,
Engulfing me like a quilt,
Creating problems that weren't even there,
Causing your discomfort coming out from nowhere,
Want to show that I do care,
But I'm still trying to grasp for air.
The reality,
Is this some kind of cruelty?
To someone who is not well mentally.
Everyone faces the same thing, they say,
This is just a part of growing up, they sway,
Trust me this is just their way,
To keep their insecurities hidden away.
The sensitivity,
Every little things are magnified,
People's kind gestures became hidden motives,
Mind rotating circles like a lost detective,
Couldn't snap out of the mind's hyperactive,
I sincerely hope for one's forgive.
The loneliness,
Is the ugly truth of this sickness,
The insecurities are just hidden below,
Creeping so quietly in beneath like an evil dark crow,
We try to hide, we try to run but it just won't go.
Sometimes it's not because we don't show,
It's just because you don't know.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
Low self esteem is cute, when
you’re lonely. Hovering about,
in some boneless pose. My invariable stream,
of thoughts
has ceased,
I wait.
Higher functions diverted, until
You’ve arrived. Aloofness abounds, it thickens the air
Awkward,
in the skin of you
towards me, cuts progressing
our bodies shrink,
everything contracts
Towards the invisible,
Except your eyes.
Beautiful and deep,
A different sort of infinite
They only expand
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 10:14 PM UTC
Writing.
None of this
is important.
The poetry
of flesh-and-bone characters,
immunization from what is -
a comfort
in the recognition of ourselves
and realization
that we are not completely
alone
in our aloofness.
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 1:18 AM UTC
She despises the world
People irritate and disgust her
Proud to be known as the rebel
Rises above the emotional clowns
Desensitized and disenfranchised
Yet she conformed to the circus
For reasons mere mortals cannot comprehend
Hidden behind the eye of adjudication
Yet don't dare evaluate her soul
She beguiles my response with pseudo aloofness
Jaded and defended
But she entertains me with angst
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
An eagle the bird of prey
Clawed at the ground
taking me back to the river
where the tide stroked
An eagle the bird of prey
A ghost of lost faces
showing me the essence
where the love started
An eagle the bird of prey
A weaver of the world
spinning me on the orbit
where the whispers tickled
An eagle the bird of prey
A slur of the speech
talking to me in tongues
where time is out of hand
An eagle the bird of prey
The darkness that stones
showing me the gloom
where aloofness is an ally
An eagle the bird of prey
A companion of my soul
following me when I fall
Inside the pearl of a teardrop
An eagle the bird of prey
A draft of echoey words
writing with me as I type
the muse of fruity letters
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
Ostentation or Pomposity
ostentation or pomposity
it doesn't really matter
the self importance in your words
makes your head much fatter
humility and realness
a personality of reaching higher
putting others out in front
are traits that most admire
aloofness or audacity
pretentiousness and vanity
conditions of the ego
shows a loss of true sanity
define it with big words
or make them really small
but your airs or arrogance
will finally lead to your fall
Gomer LePoet ....
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 2:06 PM UTC
Not everybody is interested in everything.
Everyone's got their own particular sphere and multi-limbed web of general interests.
When one goes on about a topic that another finds uninteresting, then their listener is bound to get bored, (and boredom is the precursor to annoyance.)
This is where tact comes in. Tactfulness is the ability to read boredom (as well as uneasiness, embarrassment, and any other general anxiety-inducing feelings) in your listener. Someone with tact knows when to change the subject and/or shut up altogether. It's a subtlety.
However, the more passionate one feels about a subject, the harder it is for them to show tact when talking about it.
This explains why nerds and drunks get such a bad rap for being annoying. (God forbid, a drunken nerd . . . )
Because they feel so passionately about the topics that they're interested in that they'll often talk at great length about them without any regard for their audiences' boredom. (And prolonged boredom invariably leads to annoyance.)
This is why the nerdiest of nerds is often regarded as a god amongst their peers (with "peers" in this sense really just meaning people of similar interests.) Because they have such vast knowledge of such a particular subject (which is often of very little interest to most Others. ("Others" in this sense meaning people who are outside of this particular circle of peers.))
The same may or may not be true for drunks.
(Although, there's something to be said about both of them being the most likely to have conversations with no one but themselves.)
This also explains general aloofness (a.k.a. coolness, i.e. "being cool.")
The types who seem so disinterested in everything that people often become interested in them if for no other reason than to simply find out what it is that they actually do find interesting.
This is why cool people tend to be so popular. Everyone trying their hand at gaining their attention by drawing it to this thing or that thing, with a weird need of validation being thinly-veiled beneath it.
(This might also explain why "cool" people tend to be such ******** often dismissing these constant attempts to grab their attention as either pathetic and/or depressing.)
Then, of course, there are the word-smiths. The Salesmen.
Those who fancy themselves so intelligent as to be able to twist what their audience would otherwise find disinteresting into something that they can't live without,
often through some combination of communication manipulation and nonverbal tricks.
But just don't listen to them.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
Soon my wishes will be verses, earthworms unraveling a silk string that wraps us in the world. Ravishing, I'm raving madly, going crazy, coming, and coming undone. Your physical frame matched with your intellectual marvel drives me totally insane, dumbfounded and looking for all of my marbles. I'd sail a thousand ships to afford even just a glance, you're the oeuvre to all my movements, conducting the symphony of all we have. I've written a myriad of many books: essay, narrative, prose, and poem. That merely begin to document the excitingness interspersed within our knowings. This mirthy bliss of ours is an overture to our youth, it's this astute aloofness inside these hours fervidly wrapped in a cocoon of me and you.
I'm not coming across, the way that I initially intended to. The truth is I'm clueless on how to take something too awesome for words, and then attempt to put sentences into them. Like those pictures of you I sometimes take when you fall asleep before me. That has been a fantastic example to myself of just a miniature way I adore thee. Scotch, IPAs, and hoppy drinks splattering laughter through the room, now how can I find one of 200,000 words that could even give justice to it.
So whether or not it's romantic, I don't do it for any other reason, except that describing you and I in words is an inadequacy I'm not pleased with. When lips comfort necks, and hair comforts chests. Sleeping nestled like Bell your head nuzzled at my breast. If I could only say, how incredibeautifulamazing it's been- not last month, last year, or yesterday, but every increment between us without discriminating any piece. Then perhaps I'm getting .0001% closer to being able to describe how amazing we make each other feel.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
Medicine induced hallucinations,
body quivering with ache,
and I'm hearing the sweet chime of bells
In this hour of pain my mind orchestrates.
The next drop from the IV,
helps even greater than the last,
a constant drumming in my head
a beat which was not meant for dance.
The others around me dressed in white
say I'm doing fine and that I should rest,
but when there's music pouring into the room
Sleep is what I must detest.
Can they not hear the wondrous sounds?
The vibrations that reflects my pain?
Those invisible waveforms move visibly
or have I just gone entirely insane?
There is no music, they tell me.
It must be a side-affect to the medication.
The ambiguous tune that rattles my brain,
is death knocking, it is by my orchestration.
But who is to say what I hear
is not real?
The tune in my head I wish to transcribe
but I'm weak,
and barely clinging to life.
So no one will hear this stirring melody.
This is the song I hear towards the end of my life.
In these last precious moments
laying in my seemingly sterile bed,
the tune haunts me 'till I shut my eyes.
but the tune is my comfort, I do not dread.
So take me with you, oh humble melody.
I welcome your amplitude with open ears
Let's take a listen to what you're telling me,
I dare you to move me to tears…..
The warm blanket of the strings comforts me,
the brass section: a foundation, a rock.
Oh, but hear the timpani? It taps to the beat of my near-ending biological clock.
The woodwinds, a sympathetic harmony that aides my despair.
Their aloofness like the machine by my side, filling me with air.
*The main theme speaks to me directly, and I've been worn thin
but I swear the main line is "I've fought valiantly, but this battle I could not win."*
I do not have to open my eyes to see,
that the director of this symphony is myself.
I've created this music on my death bed,
and it was not meant for anyone else.
When I close my eyes this final night,
take a somber breath and leave.
I'll have my tune in my head,
and nobody for me to grieve.
Goodbye to this world around me,
now the nurse come to medicate.
One last final wave of my arms.
This song I hear, mine alone, I orchestrate.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
-- David Whyte
from Everything is Waiting for You
©2003 Many Rivers Press
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
A sheer pink lip balm
A harsh light bulb-lit reflection
Deep, tired, dark circles
That outermost omnipresent aloofness
Dark 00's and midriff
The cold, 6:00 am, hollow and dim living room
Seriously demeaning and only aware introspectively
Noble-felt, harshly observed silence
First, the summit most deeply craved and sensually submissive to
Clarity and optimism
Motivation and kindness
But impending soon after
A permanent loneliness, soullessness, sadness and a vast emptiness
The every day conscience
Hours spent absorbing the stillest silence possible
Not being able to think full thoughts or talk to oneself
All that's distinguished is feeling paralyzed in the mind
Harsh bathroom lights
Loud, rough water filling the bathtub
Staring as the repetitive breathing moves the water line back then forth
Up then down
Slow moving and eerily melancholy
Continues
2 am... 3 am... 4 am...
Physically exhausted and still
Lethargic bones
Mentally continuous, even rapid, and imaginative
Consisting of only slightly heavy, controlled breaths and an idled pause
Everything is paused except the mind
The body goes without
Naturally retracting from the mind
Counting the minutes until the alarm goes off
Arises to feel disoriented
Resolves with more
A light-dark shimmer and brown boots
Perfectly placed lips
A sharp nose and a sunken aura
That craving, comfortable normal attained
It all resurfaces
The smell of that time
The mentally formed associations
Cold like the winter, early mornings and the fluorescent light
Cigarettes like the emptiness, somber, bitterness and silence
Oppressive but so liberating
Depressive but so enthralling
It smells malignity pleasure-filled
A sheer pink lip balm
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC