"verbalizing" poems
Verbalizing out her interests
attracted opportunities.
She planned to play with every insecurity,
learning, growing and blooming
with every opening.
She just had to take a chance
for the possibility.
Event hough she was dubious and stuttering.
But soon there would be rhythm and fluency
and there she would find unity in
a community.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
busy verbalizing my merchandise
a display of teeth reefed behind my smile
because merchandise is what i am after
and The Revels watch over me
and laughter drains down through sewer grates
i am watched over
my potential client walks away
but returns again with queries
on this hot day
a smell like burnt hair raises from the gutters
and these are the streets that radiate
on this hot day
an honest clash and not some some touchy bout
and here we are
the costly coil of pushing business together ;
a lively thrive
thrifty **** you"s and a dressing down
circling the other and striking their buttons
interlaced within is a genuine pressing
toward each other goals
this partnership
swiftly made
has an extreme edge and chaotic balance
the both of us must master or abandon our productivity
shall we be served by this union
or sever fighting ?
unfit
it swerves and suffers a pity
let's keep this one brief
we manage business
handshakes
and scowl away with our wares
each of us feeling equally scammed
(we've made useful enemies at best)
i break out laughing all the same-how
and howl because i feel
that feeling that this could go on forever
and business has roots in all my moods
i crouch at the curb
the curb is abrasive
i sit
i look at the dry heat radiating off the tarmac
the slight greasy lime taste of the air passing
the roof of my mouth
the electric wires running hum into the buildings
the storm drains at the edges of the roads
where laughter siphons down to the magma of Hades
it is waning off now
and i feel vague
i stand and i scan for more players
i spot a vivid orange one
one that i may barter their aura of vigour
traded for my sketchy wares
Mar 12, 2022
Mar 12, 2022 at 9:55 AM UTC
Your inferior intellect disgusts me. While I have some trouble verbalizing my own, I know that it is far more than what you display. Your immature actions and juvenile conduct will get you into trouble some day; real trouble. You may not even notice, because you are too stubborn to face the fact that you aren’t a goddess. You have bad intentions and wicked tongue. Your fuel is jealousy and your eyes are blind. But we’re both growing older, and one day you will realize that everything I’ve done has been good. Or maybe you won’t realize - if not, I will pity you, but I will have no mercy. We all have a choice. We all choose who we want to be, and I’m not disregarding DNA; I know it plays a role, it plays a strong one, but we feed on experience, and I expected better from you--of all people.
You’ve been put through the same evil that you construct. Why? I only want the best for both of us, for everyone. You seem to differ. I’m not sure if it’s selfishness, envy, or determination to make a point, but it’s something. I’m not sure of its irrelevance to our confrontation, but I sure as hell know that it is irrelevant to anything else. So, why? You know as well as I do that we all have our different skill-sets, different opinions, and different incentives, so if you’re trying to prove something, stop. You know the human can’t be tamed once his or her mind is set in place. You’re apparently set in stone. Maybe I am too, so do you understand now? You can’t change my mind. I will do as I please, just as you will. We are a lot alike, you and I. The only difference: yin vs. yang. And you know I’m right. Your inadequate hands, reaching out, just so someone will notice. Well I notice, okay? But I will not submit. Neither will he. So, please stop. I understand your apathy and your care, but is it genuine or is it all a lie? After all these years, I feel that I should know the truth, but now I feel that I don’t know you at all.
I’ve watched the change creep up your spine, and I don’t blame you, completely. I know the storm has been rough, but don’t you know that it covers the whole sky? We’re all getting rained on and all you seem to care about is your own umbrella. Sure, you may hand it to me every once in a while so I have a bit of cover, but I know that you’ll be retrieving it soon, just like always. I just hope that some day the sun comes out for you, because I want that for you. I want you to be okay. I want you to be happy. I want to be happy. I want your interference to cease. From one empath to another: I know you can feel it. You know you can be better. I’m not sure if it’s fear of failure or simple carelessness that’s getting in the way, but something is. You can control it. I would never intentionally disrespect you; you’re almost like a sister to me, an older sister. So start acting older. You have a substantial amount of potential in this life. All you have to do is let go of all the negativity and you’ll be set free. Just like me. I love you, so please understand.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
muse,
*she/her has no master, only a mastery;
she, comes compulsing, a physical pounding,
a throbbing impervious resistant to logic or medicine,
which is the so very ever, the peculiar throbbing
of a principled particular “present participle,”*
*write of compulsing is her mocking suggestion.*
*a presence, punishing urging, pas de choix, obey,
submission; write freely but not free, compose or
decompose; is there a difference, no, not, and so ordered,
demand surrendered, how? how? this taking and giving,
can a single act dichotomy be so fulfilling and so emptying?*
<>
wake daily to water canvas, the waves, dabs of paint
protruding, irritating. provoking yet presented silenced,
repetitiously calming, motioned framed within the
white edged sand, the bound-surround of the living painting.
eyes alight, eyes delight, this daily emergence unto
a tapestry devoid of human interference suggests
a differentiating reality; now I understand the how of a
world’s imperfections constituting, tooting its own perfectionism.
this is not lake water; no single flat stone skipping nor
a concentric rippling to a slow death; this is seaward-
bound, an oceans subservient tributary, contributory,
a river, bay, sound - precursors to a vast atlantic infinity.
this is metaphor; this a still life of the perpetuation metamorphosis.
<>
*the muse exhales; as do I subsequently; what difference?
none, she replies to herself, tween painting artist and
verbalizing poet, the un-still life creation, always, always,
different, the essence of diversity in a singularity sameness*
7:13 AM Thu Jul 29
2021
S. I. Sound
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
Jotting down a few words
As I update a journal
Influences of her perfection
Adds a status quo
Marvel by her ways
I put together a sentence
Like a songbird
Verbalizing a perch
No dictionary can match
Her superb dialect
Barriers of longevity
I discovered myself
Doubts in her words with captivity
Lost in a colloquial speech
No woman on earth moves
As if she does
Intriguing to the thoughts
Her grammar
Has many episodes
Which causes drama within
Shall I abandon
What have I learned
Knowing my love
Is just a few acronyms
Can sell no less
In terms of our
Endearment
Apr 6, 2010
Apr 6, 2010 at 10:43 PM UTC
life lies on me like a coffin lid
the investment of a strange ventriloquism
where no one has imagined me
or the existence of my
verbalizing impulses of emotion
the structured knowledge of
chemistry and music
I shall go beyond
beyond the humming bird
beyond the giant stars
way, way past the darkness
in the valley
where the gentle tempest rests
and there I shall enter into visions
and claim a desolate sun
who possesses enormous
silhouetted slices of hell
i shall go far beyond the speaking rain
beyond the whispers that have taken up
residence in my mind
way, way past the living and the dead
where ancient texts have wept
i shall stumble far across the horizon
beyond the jagged edges of the world
far, far beyond all known compass
where cartographies of silence
roam
here i shall be made a suggestive space
a womb with a heartbeat
here, far beyond all that is
in a dark place of peace
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 11:33 AM UTC
Perfect.
Is unattainable.
Or so I am told.
Then why was 100
Written in bold?
On my high school report card.
Courses I tried to perfect
Taking on every extra opportunity
to raise that mark higher
accepting nothing less than one followed by two zeroes
And this, I was able to achieve
In many courses, which you may not believe
Praise, cheers, congratulations
Nobody could see the underlying complications
Not even me.
Because getting one hundred
Or slightly more
Is all that prevented my mind
From beginning to roar
Because I don't make stupid mistakes
Those I'm not allowed
Losing marks is forbidden
Or my mind becomes loud
Imperfection is intolerable.
At the sight of a mark off
My mind tumbles and swirls
How could you do that?
How do you expect to survive in this world?
Unacceptable.
In high school I attempted to fix it,
Many times being successful
But that is not how university works.
And what if those tainted expectations
Find a new muse?
Self destruction.
For the anger over percentages
Turned into anger at my body.
How I looked
It never really mattered.
I knew I wasn't particularly pretty.
For the first time in Gr. 12
I stared at my mirror
After make up and hair products
Thought
Wow, if I try I can be pretty.
If I try I can make this failure go away
One more pound and I'll be okay
No fat, no wrinkles
Nothing to remind me of the
Never-ending sensation of not being good enough.
Little did I know
That means not existing.
Through hell and back
Make it to university
Now I'm on track
But wait
Perfectionism lays awake
Right behind my back
And it's ruining me.
Verbalizing my struggles
I've been told
"You don't need to get perfect"
But that voice in my head is old
It can't go away with one person's advice
Or yoga session
Or exercise
Or learning it spits out plenty of lies.
Never
Feeling
Good Enough.
Attending university is painful
But apparently it's the only cure
Avoidance isn't the answer.
But what does that mean?
Hm let me see.
One mark off here?
Work harder.
Devote more time to studying.
You must do better.
Mistakes are unacceptable.
You are so stupid.
Unacceptable.
Worthless.
A never ending CD playing in my mind.
I hope that my experiences
Can help someone else
That others won't feel so alone
That I can learn to accept myself.
And find a kinder voice
That is my own.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 8:01 AM UTC
I can almost remember
the exact force you
used to kiss me when
no one was looking;
when on foot, they
nearly knocked me over,
and when in bed, I
sometimes savored breaks.
I can almost remember
the exact pattern of hair
behind your neck, escaping
below rumpled fabric and
near body parts I would
have used my mouth to
make love to, had folks
turned away more often.
I can almost remember
the exact volume you
spoke in when we
leaned in too close, your
lips fondling my earlobe
and verbalizing
just what I had hoped
you might do to me later.
I can almost remember
the exact length of your
eyelashes that extended to
catch tears you cried for me;
my thumbs were not always
swift enough to form half-moons
under the almond orbs through
which you watched me depart.
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
Do you love me?
Those four words were once so hard to say with sanity. As if my mother tongue forbade me to know how it meant once. I have sat all day in the empty spaces of us; trying to find an answer without verbalizing it
So I slept on it; I waited on it; I walked on it; I dreamed about it; I accepted it;
And I meant it
And I realized; why should I ask him? Because if he loves me he would tell me. Maybe he is not the type of guy who wander around and saying I love you—a shy one, perhaps—my mind stops thinking.
Or
He simply does—not love me?
He stared at me in a long pause and kissed me at 2 a. m
‘Do you like me?’ I asked
He stopped and bit my lip; he was not quite there yet
Loud and clear, I have found my answer in his silence
*It's not even a hard question god **** it!*
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
she annihilates me
within somber streams
of her eyes,
unclothing my resolve
layer after layer
laying bare my
want to taste
the flesh
of all life's sorrow;
licking the wounds
of her heart
as her elixir'd
brine drips, whetting
my penchant;
to suckle her
pain from
weary limbs,
collapsing
at her feet
as life forces
drain my essence;
awakening
slumbered state
of mind, I lean
into her silence
behind enshrouded
eyes; awaiting
in naked liberation,
unleashing imbibed
shyness that existed
within; as she gazes
upon me, acknowledging
my very existence
in her realm; to whisper
against me without
verbalizing her thoughts;
watching her evolution,
I sigh, gasping inwardly,
as if, she is newborn
from wombed
catacomb; a new day
emerging from
cocooned silence,
erupting into wanton
unabashed passion
as cognizant open-mouth
gazes unleash
untithered moans
of release;
no longer mourning
sorrow's, fore, new
tomorrow's has arisen
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 3:57 AM UTC
Grandma's dress at the end was a sling around her
left leg and arm attached to a rope
and pulley we thought, or I did at five, was fun
to pull on
her exercise
she couldn't talk
but made expressive grunts to garner my mom's attention
when she saw me doing wrong
going into a room I shouldn't have
she was all there except
for verbalizing and being one sided
I liked to cuddle with her
I still see it all
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 2:04 AM UTC
Chapter One: Bozo & Bonzo
The Goatman was a fat guy who lived in the old part of town where everything looked tired. No one around there cared very much about anything.
There were two bums who liked to hang around the train tracks over there. We started calling them Bozo and Bonzo. Bonzo didn't mind because he loved The Who and Bonzo happened to be his favorite drummer. Bozo did mind and would curse and spit at us whenever we'd say the word. He told us to call him by his real name (Charlie) but we liked Bozo a lot more.
Anyway, my friend Lawrence and I would give Bonzo and Bozo a quarter each for a recounting of a recent sighting of the Goatman. One day after school we decided to drop by the tracks to see if they were around. They were, and they were both **** drunk and stunk like wet dogs do after they come inside from the rain. Bonzo asked me if I wanted a swig from his flask and I shook my head no.
"Fuckin' ***** I knew you weren't the real deal," Bonzo muttered as he swirled his flask in a circle, as if it were an expensive martini.
"I don't need your nasty backwash, thanks," I shot back.
"We want more information on the Goatman," Lawrence broke in.
"We have quarters," I added.
Lawrence took the 50 cents from his pocket and extended his arm. Bozo quickly snatched up the coins and laughed.
"You two hot for the Goatman or somethin'?"
"We're not gay for the Goatman," Lawrence says. "But we're definitely gay for finding out who the **** he actually is."
Bozo laughed some more but it came out as a hearty, borderline obese and drunk gargle/scoff.
"We saw him yesterday, believe it or not. I was takin' a **** in a bush across the street from him and he came amblin' out. I was too drunk to care much at the time but lookin' back, I shoulda been more scared," Bozo looked down at the worn boots on his feet and kicked the dirt. "He was carryin' a tiny plastic shoppin' bag, all neatly tied up. After he went back inside I crept over and took it and just fuckin' ran, man," Bozo seemed distressed just verbalizing his encounter.
"So what was inside?" I knew he was getting to it, but I needed to know.
"Just some candy wrapper. Nothin' but candy wrapper. Butterfingers', 3 Musketeers', Pay Days. You name it, he ate it," Bozo completely broke down laughing this time. I'm coming to realize he is the sort of person who thinks he's funnier than anyone else seems to.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 9:58 AM UTC
I mourn my past profoundly.
my emotions
deprived of
words –
I mourn my
unwritten
emotional words.
do not stop me,
I insist
it is part of the
healing process and I
am processing-
though pardon the sadness
for it is all I am
capable of verbalizing.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
In elementary school you learn about the importance of the 8 parts of speech. That with these essential bits and pieces of the English language you can grammatically slay dragons, build empires upon prepositional phrases, and verbally split wigs with hammering conjunctions.
Spitting flexible adjectives in general directions with a chance that someone might listen. I wish you could still listen. I want to tell you. Verbalizing verbs with vicious vernacular. I shipped it. Wrecked it. Mauled it.
I want to fix it. I can't. I'm waiting. For the day I can hug you again. To apologize for the lack of complete. In life you complete stuff. Like when your mother tells you that you can't quit clarinet in the 5th grade, because once you start something, you finish. We never finished.
You left before we could complete. I didn't say goodbye or even hello. I guess I could blame it on pronouns. I could say well she didn't let me know, he was lost in his words. We didn't want to intrude on the walls they built with words that I never spoke. But without them I would be so much better off.
Or That we need to talk. We need to figure my **** out because some days this iceberg set of lungs I have, only melt when I don't need then to. So pass through me. Across the tremendous skin across my body in order for me to feel again.
The skin is tucked under this hard shell I learned to build after being poked all too often. Poked with things like goodbyes or when I can't tell time on analog clocks. Numbers are hard to compute when all I see is you. I want to quickly get over the slow process of slickly sliding into a hole I'll never figure out.
I'm in a directional pull towards who knows where with nothing but my brain space. We all know how dangerous things get in there. Like that time, when I was 7, I was convinced you were kidnapped by the bandit in my dream. Sleeping is hard these days.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
I make believe and always dream,
Of nothing practical except the mean,
In all those random thoughts,
From a kid being taught,
To a teenager wanting to forget,
To an adult holding no regret,
Falling down and breaking,
Holding my stomach aching,
Searching for some kind of relief,
Not sure what it is I seek,
A thrill falling from the sky,
Pushing buttons asking why,
The sounds I hear are there,
Wondering why I have fear,
Being strong and knowing when I'm wrong,
Making art through story and song,
Exercising to the point of exhaustion,
Unable to cast even notion,
Towards verbalizing perfect silence,
While keeping peace from violence,
A guardian for some,
Wanting to fight none,
Teaching others to be honest,
And life having plenty of test,
For everyone to pass,
While many speak crass,
I know what it is,
I want to say this,
I want love,
I've tried all the above,
I'm failing but not giving up,
Not now nor abrupt,
Will this stop,
A passion from the top,
Of my heart to the bottom of my soul,
I want to give you full control,
Some say foolish I may have to agree,
However I'd rather it be,
So I will keep on going,
Confessing to you and showing,
How much I want,
Until I taunt,
Myself of your dreams,
So our lives meet at the seam,
Connecting us like a zipper,
Fastening us to deliver,
Something new to this world,
Spin around and twirl,
With that beautiful figure,
Making life even bigger,
Then we could hope,
Of having a castle with a moat,
O' how I wish,
This were a dish,
That would be served,
O' how much you deserve,
Give me your hand,
Let's walk through the sand,
Counting the stars,
Where there's no pollution or cars,
I will go on forever,
Trying to be clever,
Enough to get your attention,
And will always continue to mention,
Every time I encounter you,
I like you,
And ask you out,
I'll even shout,
Til my veins dehydrate,
Til my heart fails to cooperate,
With my brain,
To the point my eyes rain,
That I'm no longer sane,
I will fill this pane,
Of shattering proportions,
A simple solution not an illusion,
A chance worth taking,
Don't you know I'm not faking,
My feelings are real,
I don't want to steal,
Your heart and break it,
I want to mend it,
From everyone who has,
In your past,
Let me be there,
I am one who cares,
Be my girlfriend,
I'll be your boyfriend
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 1:54 AM UTC
Of Baseball, Poetry and the Human Condition
~~
From “The Art of Fielding.” by Chad Harbach**
***"You loved it,” he writes of the game (baseball), “because you considered it an art: an apparently pointless affair, undertaken by people with a special aptitude, which sidestepped attempts to paraphrase its value yet somehow seemed to communicate something true or even crucial about the Human Condition.
The Human Condition being, basically, that we’re alive and have access to beauty, can even erratically create it, but will someday be dead and will not."**
~~
thus, the circle grows ever small,
binding the obvious and unblinding the oblivious
more than the mere, poetry in baseball, for both forms of art,
knowledge intuited from watching the catcher's body weave
this way and that, a dancer en pointe, arms raised in worship,
addressing the heavens with a body's broad brush strokes,
all to catch with concentrated skill, a lazy, towering popup,
climaxing oft with an exclamation point
a perilous desperation leap
into the dugout encampment of the inimical opposition
yeah, you knew that,
tho verbalizing same,
before the age of thirty,
presumed maturity,
was not an act of the sane of heart,
or the sound of mind and body melded
what you dared not admit was that the conditional principle,
was primal and not tangential, though perhaps,
some itinerant fathers foolishly mumbled incoherently
of a life linkage parallel motifs
of
that desperate beauty, the ferric magnetic irony,
that our full access pass to envisioning the finery,
imaging the stuff of our own daily creation genesis,
whether concocting undisciplined disassembled parts, words,
into a line, a stanza that froze your lungs from
the boredom of the regularity of heaving and breathing,
was in no way different
than the curvature of the boy's arm
in desperation outstretched, seeking spectacular safety for
a well hit ball of cork into a worn leather mitten and thus
confirming his humanity to the watching tribal membership
and these momentary moments of momentousness,
will live forever until we die, judged of equal stature,
a soldiers stripes, ribbons of his theaters of service,
medals of the honor and the errors of his own
human condition
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 5:02 PM UTC
Why do I always stop?
Why do I hold my breath?
My mind is screaming to tell you everything.
How when it's quiet, and the lighting is just right, your hair shines in an almost golden brown halo at the top,
and how when you speak, the sound drifts off into a slight hum,
but when your eyes meet mine I cannot say it.
How when I think of you, I hide my face in my frigid hands and I feel my cheeks run hot with blood,
and how much I've always loved your determined face, with furrowed brows and pursed lips,
but instead I look at you with a meek, silent smile.
How I nearly tear up at the thought of my life leading up to this moment with you,
and that it makes up for every time I have ever felt afraid or broken,
but I never muster up the courage to tell you...
How the reason I always look at you is because I want to appreciate all of you, and I'm afraid I'll miss something,
and I wish I weren't so shy as to always write you love letters and poems, instead of verbalizing it to you,
but I always get stuck.
How I thought today twenty times over that I wished to say I love you,
and that I think your smirks might just **** me,
and maybe your hands are just feathers because they move so gracefully across the piano keys,
but I didn't mention it.
How could I?
I'm a never-ending trainwreck of the mouth.
Once I start, I can't finish; I'll never say it all.
So I don't.
But....
I want to.
I want to look you in the eyes and instead of fumbling with my hands, my ring, or looking down and away from you, I want to clearly say this...
How the only thought in my mind that kept me from shaking incessantly during an anxiety attack was you,
and how in the silence of my room I just knew life would get better, IS better,
and how you keep me from disrespecting myself,
and how I think I couldn't imagine a lifetime where I didn't meet you,
oh I couldn't, I wouldn't.
How the other day, when I was folding my clothes, I stopped.
I felt a rush of joy overcome me and I just didn't tell you, I couldn't even say it out loud to myself,
but **** it, I'm in love with you.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:24 PM UTC
the other day
you asked me
what I thought about you
and I did not really
answer your question
we all have our idiosyncracies
they make us unique
and sometimes
a pain in the neck
being overpunctual
or always late
staging an appearance
or fading into the background
griping gruffily
or glossing things over
with sweet talk
verbalizing everything
or very little
sticking to long-made plans
or making your mind up
again
in the last minute
swingin wildly
or staying calm
pontificating on what is right
or listening quietly
to what others have to say
indicating your respect
for what they want to say
being a control freak
or leaving people enough leeway
to find their own approach
worrying permanently
about friends, children, parents, family, the world
or believing that they
can occasionally
do without us
there is a fine balance
difficult to maintain
and more often than not
we fall off on one side
or the other
from that narrow ridge
of mutual acceptance
grow irritated or disgusted
in wild moments
tell her or him that THIS IS IT
and s/he can leave
the earlier the better
and NEVER come back
when such tempestuous events
give way
to calmer contemplation
we remember
that time is short
life is precious
and love is what makes it bearable
and we reconsider
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
Your name filled up the three diaries I have kept— the only diaries I vow to create.
Each of them written from cover to cover.
I penned your name in ink: permanently etching the smooth planes of my notebooks.
Like a **** that turned into a scar.
Your name:
Written over and over and over and over and over again.
Until my hands tremble with weakness— tired of your name.
But my heart still whispered. Then screamed.
My heart still cried out, Begging, and Begging for release.
So my hand wrote till it memorized you. Every curve and crook of your name.
My fingers laced through every tangled lines and placed them carefully side-by-side.
Oh so carefully… so that your name would be spelled out perfectly.
Until the pen I hold, against my own will, scrawl you on every piece of paper I touch.
And with your name came the pain. My poems.
With your name came the tidal wave of emptiness.
I wrote and wrote your name, over and over.
A repetitive chant, an old cycle.
I wrote, caressing your name as I did.
With my whole being.
Heart. Mind. Soul.
Body.
My hand and mouth simultaneously verbalizing your name.
As if by doing so would make you love me.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
you ever studied constellations?
because speaking of,
there are more stars in this universe
that words ever spoken by mankind.
the size of astronomical numbers in a
true sense, IS the word itself
there are infinite ways to express this
equate the gravity of dropping one/ness verbalizing stanzas & sentences while deriving the universal mass of the human language.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
What can I do?
I want to hold you and sooth you
I see the way your soul is vibrating
Shaking with fear
With terror.
I want to let you know that you are not alone
That I have been there too.
Stood in the same place, been in the same shoes.
But I can’t
I am scared it will only look as though
I am undermining your struggles.
My issues are different than yours,
But the feelings are so very close.
You are breathing in the same knives
I have suckled on my entire life.
I could describe to you the exact taste of red in 3 different languages.
But if I did.. would you hate me?
Would you take me for an insensitive *****
A ****
who always makes it about themself?
I want you to know:
I understand.
I want you to know you are not alone with your feelings
But I am lacking, in every sense
My vocabular just does not seem inclusive enough
And even if it was, I have no skill
Verbalizing my thoughts seems impossible.
And I know exactly how it is
when you share your feelings
And yet you still feel like nobody heard you.
I don’t want this for you.
So please just let me know what you need
I do not want to leave you by yourself.
I don’t want you to be alone any longer,
Believe me, it won’t make you stronger
Suffering in silence, should not be your only option.
I am sorry, that nothing I say will be adequate
But at least let me listen.
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 8:05 AM UTC
Written to Matthieu,
Loving
The pain of a doubt .
Seeking.
Perhaps, perhaps, seeking.
Healing
A futureless
Sentimental Wound
Meeting you again
In your words.
Isn’t that just
In real life
Role-playing?
Feeling
In lulls
Your long absences
That’s not a lie
Not getting
If we should take
What’s left to us
What we’re testing.
Remembering
For a few minutes…
Whether we were lovers
I watch you wither.
Thinking
About giving you back
What you thought
You discovered
Seeking, seeking,
Seeking.
Where desire
Has gone
I could tell you
That the past
Must have engraved
What happened
But giving up
Repelling
This memory
Everything is nighttime…
Writing
To know
That darkness
Is hard to drain!
Translated on August 7, 2015
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC