"askings" poems
words have never been enough
to convey what's on my mind
i'll never tell you
what you should pay attention to is the pauses
between my fleeting
i'm okays and thank you for askings
if you listened closely
you may have heard
my cries
there is much said in the unspoken
if you looked closely you'd see the red ring around the area just below my elbow
i'd fallen asleep at my desk again
thinking
sobbing- that's something you'd have noticed if you saw the puffiness of my eyes
then you'd know i cried this morning too
you'd know that my smile
was a mere facade
and if you'd understood that
and if you listened close to my heart's thump
then you would have noticed the hum of suicidal thoughts running through my veins
coursing through my very being
feeding into every cell
ringing in my ears
like a mantra
like a death march
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 5:18 AM UTC
No easy ends - no simple way
to create a finale
of all that feeling,
buried deep. Trapped.
The heart - conduit
of all the good, and pure,
loving and fair
in that childlike innocence,
but too the cage,
controlled, emboldened, refused
by the cerebral gatekeeper.
Why let that emotion
out? Is it self-sustaining?
Should it be?
Searching in the thickness of grime
and the transparency of glass
both to find that balance
between self and self;
the self that needs its own,
and the the self that needs
its other.
To what end is the search
viable, in being separate
from the internal pervasion
of anxiety?
What does it mean to err irrepressively
from one side
to the other -
a seemingly ceaseless internal script
written drunkly, incohesively
scribbled across the walls -
is it damage?
A calamity of mentality
and an unsaveable prospect
to none of earth - and perhaps she knows.
So many things to ask, each
with an answer he doesn't have
or doesn't want to, tied
to questions he can't put into words,
for her sake, for his, for fear
for love or selfish compulsion -
there is no knowing.
Wordsmith indeed, unable to weave
the most fundamental askings,
but foolish enough to think
he has done it in his moments.
The tale of saving the broken one
has outlived its life
at the forefront of storytelling.
And still, she saves him.
In every word,
every touch,
every grasp,
every time
and every day,
she saves him.
And to think herself the wrong,
to take on the trial - the insanity
of only the loyal,
of only her.
The story is titled simply:
a crooked man,
and the perfect lady.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 8:05 AM UTC
Polite conversation, versation
passive voice of conversare,
literally "to turn round with,"
run along with, become
associated within determined
pleas… many askings
if it please the crown,
with mastering mind's mission
per
usual suspicion, sneaking from
under stood stones been up holding
all we are allowed to learn by law of sin.
For we are in the only atmosphere in ever,
now, where we are acidifiable in base time,
converted using sublimation, suggesting,
sub certain chthonic sense, a shiver,
a quake in fracking joined terranes, uplifted
as the staked plains in Texas,
and the Mogollon Rim, in Arizona, as seen
using augmented eyes, we wise, we see
we have seen farther than any actual doer,
of the process, form and function as a one off,
once through the wringer, then stretched
on real tenter's hooks to dry and bleach,
to sun bright white, crystaline face stretching
feeling joker urge, make a
mind chuckle, think it through to a what if,
in no time at all,
imagine all we know is, was
not made as we may think we might
have, in essence, in us, as we think
we might have the exact same key
fit the exact same lock on instants,
timeless instants we may play
Jun 13, 2024
Jun 13, 2024 at 12:51 PM UTC