"suggestibility" poems
I still don't sleep well at night sometimes. I miss you, whoever you are, or maybe I just miss having someone close to me I can put all of this love into, an outlet for my affection. Whatever the case, I spend my waking moments wondering where you are and my moments asleep wondering when. It's honestly getting harder to tell the difference between the two, the two infinite worlds of possibility where wild, unexpected things happen. Or don't. Sometimes the reality is more interesting than the dream.
There's a certain sense of tranquil quiet when you're lonely that I can only appreciate for about 5 minutes before my heart grips against its iron bars, looking for a key or a file or a spoon to leap its way out of my chest to freedom and adventure. It writes Morse code letters on skipped heartbeats to you, but I am a miserable translator and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for my past, for all the wrongs I've committed in the nebulous black leviathan night, the almost-nightmare state of bleariness and hypnotic suggestibility. Clarity only comes when you spirit your marble curved likeness in the warm wooded embrace I do so long for in waking life.
I ramble and you float away, O kind angel of faint hope, white stone wings beating tremendously in sync like the buzzer of an alarm clock, striking me asleep again for daylight, somnambulating across the barren black-tar desert in search of water and finding only more black sand.
The nights have become more torturous without your colorless gaze. Please get here soon so I can tell you about how I've known you all my life.
With fondest regards,
Christian
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 5:50 AM UTC
Now that the proper instruments are arranged
his time of inscription nears.
He reads from the last page, backwards there
to find the beginning.
Whisking away the presumptions of page one
as mere suggestibility;
to read as the author reads is mission.
Why follow the staged footprints?
The book that neatly folds light between fine feathers
keeps out of sight what he wants,
headlong to reverse truth north, find relativity false
to find the blazing word for "now."
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
Now that the proper instruments are arranged
his time of inscription nears.
He reads from the last page, backwards there
to find the beginning.
Whisking away the presumptions of page one
as mere suggestibility;
to read as the author reads is mission.
Why follow the staged footprints?
The book that neatly folds light between fine feathers
keeps out of sight what he wants,
headlong to reverse truth north, find relativity false
to find the blazing word for "now."
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
I still don't sleep well at night sometimes. I miss you, whoever you are, or maybe I just miss having someone close to me I can put all of this love into, an outlet for my affection. Whatever the case, I spend my waking moments wondering where you are and my moments asleep wondering when. It's honestly getting harder to tell the difference between the two, the two infinite worlds of possibility where wild, unexpected things happen. Or don't. Sometimes the reality is more interesting than the dream.
There's a certain sense of tranquil quiet when you're lonely that I can only appreciate for about 5 minutes before my heart grips against its iron bars, looking for a key or a file or a spoon to leap its way out of my chest to freedom and adventure. It writes Morse code letters on skipped heartbeats to you, but I am a miserable translator and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for my past, for all the wrongs I've committed in the nebulous black leviathan night, the almost-nightmare state of bleariness and hypnotic suggestibility. Clarity only comes when you spirit your marble curved likeness in the warm wooded embrace I do so long for in waking life.
I ramble and you float away, O kind angel of faint hope, white stone wings beating tremendously in sync like the buzzer of an alarm clock, striking me asleep again for daylight, somnambulating across the barren black-tar desert in search of water and finding only more black sand.
The nights have become more torturous without your colorless gaze. Please get here soon so I can tell you about how I've known you all my life.
With fondest regards,
Alex
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC