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Gigi Tiji May 2015
Does my very existence not fit into your narrow idea of what a human being should be?

That you even hold a belief that my identity should have parameters truly disconcerts me.

First, I feel a reactionary urge to be sorry for not fitting into this tiny little cardboard box you've made for me.

This box you want to close up and push to the back of a dusty shelf.

This is because I'm used to being swept under the rug like a mess you don't want to see but you don't have the time for.

Then, I want to crush it beneath my feet and tear it apart.

But the mother within me caresses your hateful glare with a sorry stare.

Disappointed... worried, I gently pick it up.

With a sad smile, I begin to open it.

Carefully, with the calloused pads of my fingers, I untuck each fold you have created in order for this box to contain my soul.

With each motion, I make sure not to rip it at the seams. That would hurt.

It seems, though, this material has been handled unlovingly to begin with.

Mold has made its way into the corners, and the fibers are fraying at each corner, at every fold.

But I am patient. I will slowly but surely deconstruct each and every hateful box that has been stacked in the musty warehouse of your heart.

I will be here until all unsuspecting souls have escaped their prisons.

I will be here until I die.
But that's okay.

It gives me something to do with my hands.
Plus I enjoy the company of the liberated.

I need their help to clean this place up.
P Venugopal Jan 2016
Sometimes I am as eloquent
as a tomb in a merry park.
Revelers fall silent in my presence.
And when they walk away,
their footsteps on the gravel path,
dumb with forebodings!

At other times I am a wild lily
that had escaped the gardener’s notice,
waltzing with the roses and dahlias,
to the pitch and fall of the breeze.

It disconcerts...
to be thus
conspicuous.
Ari Jan 2018
my ears often listen to what they don't want to hear.

instead of picking up all the words that;
boost esteem,
affirm,
demonstrate love,
my auditory perception has acute awareness for words that;
depreciate,
deny,
exude hatred.

i cannot come up with an inkling as to why
my hearing is sharp enough to hear the whispers of disdain, yet deaf to all expressions of affection...

it disconcerts my mind to a point where i now believe i only hear what i deserve.
out for no nursery of accolade.
i am trying to sound my way
into a great mishap.
wing me the streets of all and i shall
give back their names to their fathers.

taut as a gun is held,
these words wield their unapologetic
assaults.

the next face i see will be the victim,
and it will be ******.
the discombobulated moon
gloats without a price tonight.
the white hand of it sees a figment of solace, rumples it,
disconcerts a votive clearing
reducing it to a bawl of
a windswept tumble of leaves.

i am now in front of the machine;
its salutary silence, its waiting groans,
its orchestra of trite gears slamming
the ornate of words and cutting
the stem of the flower that once
hurt me with its beauty,

i see your face
in this mound of havoc.
the pain of marvel's presence,
inclemencies of longings

everything takes space and trembles
  in its place.
Joseph Sinclair Feb 2022
A mournful
Waterfall
Of sound
A gentle
Susurration.

A sad cascade
Reverberates
In timeless
Melody
And tuneless
Tempo.

Disturbs
My soul
And disconcerts
My spirit.

— The End —