"malcontentedness" poems
A temporary wealth
is all that I am ever allotted.
A brief understanding,
as well as an ability to be understood.
We entertain ourselves
with coarse language,
crude humor,
a commitment to behave
as we know we should,
for a while anyway.
Even now,
our respective grasps
on whatever it is
that we are allowed to share
during this day’s task is tenuous,
at it’s very best.
There are count times,
microcosms of malcontentedness
that lead to slight infractions
here and there.
We,
I learn daily,
are in passing.
Always, in flux.
We are not pals
and
never shall we abide one another
as more than men,
in conflict
and resolution
at the same time.
It is not a death,
their exit,
usually anyhow.
There is no pall that befalls us.
Each of us is birthed
into the life of the other;
in an effort to facilitate
a change in each other,
I believe.
An impact,
like an iceberg shipwreck,
rescuing and rewarding the passengers,
most of whom would rather drown themselves outright.
None of us can swim.
We don’t know how.
We barely know what it means
to live as society says we should.
The rules change more often
than we can keep up.
Yet, we grasp
and
cling to basic, vague understandings
in hopes of surviving
despite our best efforts otherwise.
We work together,
tumultuous,
listening fecklessly,
recklessly hoping for
the best possible outcome.
It is quite the undertaking.
This,
this performance,
this penance,
the doing of this
is how we invest,
how we spend our temporary windfall.
We learn,
together,
to be human.
Not that we ever actually were not so.
We learn,
however,
to be ourselves,
incandescent inside of our own skins.
Together, but with lives outside of mine,
for the betterment of all of us.
I learn to be a better humanist
than perhaps I would’ve
if I’d never been endowed
with
this temporary wealth.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 5:14 PM UTC
The sprawling corporate tool, the false pretense destroys the inner sanctity. In his own personal palace crumbling with the rest of it. Not good enough. Slicked back afraid no one can comprehend the magnitude and pure scale of ból. Incessant staring, incessant staring, incessant staring. In the name of god, gravity over death, nothing is sacred, everything is broken. I am broken, for he is broken. Torn apart. Almost dead. Worth is less. No one can comprehend the magnitude and pure scale of verletzt. Stranded by the wrists, hanging. Dwindling. Imagine a man with his wrists attached to a ceiling fan, with cement shoes. Activating the ceiling fan is despicable and abhorrent, but the beauty shines through. Beauty knows no pain. Beauty covers the pain of the moment. Encompass Dancing Shiva through and through, Dancing Shiva is guidance. Encephalic dissociation at the route. What the hell is wrong. Omit me. Chasing the glorification, what he wants is not healthy he knows. Self gratification taking a non existent approach. Back seat. Take the back ******* seat. It’s for others. Its all for ******* others. He is broken where it is impossible to fix. Supplement a camera, feed the anxiety and take away the comfort. Supplement the ******* camera, take away the innocence. ADD THE INNOCENCE. Where is this where am I. What am I. How am I. Incoherent rambling to focus on a main theme. Incoherent rambling to focus on a main theme? Provide reason for disinterest; the enormous mouth roaring into his ear, roaring, flaring, decomposing any sense of worth. It’s alright. Raskolnikov would be jealous of his malcontentedness.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC