"inauthenticity" poems
I took off my blinders today.
I saw around myself
The life I neglected
In my tunnel vision,
The inauthenticity
Of my behavior.
I saw the box I so happily
Dwelled in and
Make-believed that I was
Doing something
Important.
I saw my hypocrisy in
Looking at others
And make-believing
I was made of
Something different.
Maybe I can be, now.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 4:41 AM UTC
the first time you broke my heart felt like every molecule in my body had been shaken like a carbonated drink inside a plastic bottle, containing the catastrophe and sheltering the insanity as if it were a home. i could not let anyone know how close i was to exploding, i could not be weak.
i walked around daily, replaying memories we had against the backs of my eyelids like a projector against a cement wall
i played it over and over until my stomach overflowed with churning bile, wanting to eject the inauthenticity of nostalgia
while watching i would try to make meaning of the dialogue, and you, being it’s main featured character
i made you out to be the hero but you were the villain, you destroyed the plot, you slaughtered the character’s lives, yet you were such a deceivingly good actor
have you ever heard something so many times that you started to go insane?
words can hit you so hard they start to feel like they’ve been carved into your brain, able to be sounded like keys on an everlasting piano, one note insisting for another to play along with it
but you’re not a song that i want to listen to anymore
the second time you broke my heart, i had it coming
i told myself this was it
every time i watched you blink i watched the doors to your soul close
have you ever let anyone in?
every kiss enabled another voice in my head telling me goodbye
but the best part about me letting you into my heart for a second time was that it didn’t really break
what i thought was my chest ripping open, withdrawing blood vessels and vitals, was really the nerves in my body connecting again, i can feel again
i can feel again
i am healing and here months later,
stitched up and intact
you can’t hurt me anymore
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 6:00 PM UTC
About that....
The inauthenticity,
With which breathing has been.
Not mine,
No none were held.
******* conception,
Breaths that couldn't breathe.
Those were yours.
Those were ours.
Not mine,
No none where held.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
I'm scared of silence
Lately, I distrust my thoughts
Because I don't like the voices in my head that find the confidence to speak up during the lateness of nights.
I always hear them whisper misery
An uninvited company that lacks the courtesy to find its way out.
On nights like these it hits me.
The only reason I keep replaying John Mayer
Is because when he sings he sings
about a common trouble.
And opens up for me to escape.
He descants in a melody that makes me bemuse the ugliness of myself.
Leaving me with an atlas mapped out with a road trip planned to a destination far from my current state.
Mayer leaves me numbed with talks of the ocean waves and train rides in Georgia
All escaping in his
soft tenor that beautify my afflictions.
When in reality nothing painful is beautiful
Nothing beautiful should ensue from agony
Purple and black fingerprints left on a woman's face should never be mistaken for finger paintings.
I'm not one to speak
For I lack the ability to handle my own complications.
Problems arising from all corners of my life have me centered in a hallow room compiled with letters addressed to myself.
Who are you becoming?
Why should I love you?
What makes you important?
Questions I still stutter upon when answering
They should be memorized by now but the inauthenticity of it has me living life a hollow.
A vacant in my own true skin.
But seems to find a home in everyone else's business.
I tell myself it's just a distraction.
We all need distractions from ourselves.
Leaving questions unanswered and feelings bare.
But soon to be left masked once again by the
Soft strings of the fender stratocaster Mayer caress on lonely nights.
While pouring out ballads of long loves and solitude he tells me that I'm perfect lonely.
And I believe him.
Though something is missing.
I believe him.
And I take it.
Besides the greatest flaw about being a human
Is the ability for one to feel [for everything].
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
The cloak turned over
The cloak that clouds it all
A shield against the authenticity
Last night turned over deliberately
The words with indifference
The face with unmindfulness
Shook them at the core
Yet their own hidden delusion
Struck them the most
Cruel they found inauthenticity
Critical I discovered the irony
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC