ThereisagapherethatIhaveseen

I realise, in the courtship of want,
I am not so happy,
because I perceive what I believe
I must have in order to be what I already
am.

This Day, I'd Be A Rock

This day, I'd be a rock
to who's man, I would not talk
so he can hear himself at last
overlook his timeswept past.

I'd crumble to imagination,
lost to earth voices and direction,
yet I'd like for him to hear
the watered trickle of his fear.

It washes away existence -
though does it well void distance
between what he seems and sees;
on this rock he sleeps and dreams.

He stumbles as he lays faced
by faces I long ago embraced,
and he shouts in split disharmony
the decrepit state of his autonomy.

This is no one else's cry of war -
what he bellows is a silent roar
without an ear to understand;
I merely am part of the land.

But after this day's troubled mare
in strength uneroded he's to bear
what's by grace been given,
the rest of matter forgiven.

Though I'd remain to be lift,
I'd rest in mercy to this gift,
in waiting, chipping, smoothing
edges into space more soothing.

Procaryote

I was about to punish myself for the horrible
transgressions that I had committed, fighting
with my sanity for my sanity,
but then came the sword, down upon all
I held as mine, my dreams, wants,
and paperclipped people, all frayed
beyond recognition, tassels whispering
in the wind - forwards, not back -

I didn't kill myself that day,
for what went down in the ring
was more than a jewel's worth of
precious, and what I learned, my lesson,
what I'd been solemnly swatting for
the past nineteen and a half years,
had come, bearing with it an empty sack
of shoddy patchwork but within it, promised,
the promise, that it was fuller than
the superlative of what I had been yearning for.

Tucked away, I rose from my problems,
as a phoenix, sans the fire, sans the ash,
sans the smoke and mirrors and stampede of
interest into the egg that I had hatched from.
I flew, without wings, without anyone in particular
looking out for my inexistent blazing trail in the sky.
I beat no wings, I beat all odds,
I scoured and developed and penetrated
and found hope beneath my preening brothers,
fawns of the new day,
depth-receptive and drowsy.

I fell out of that yonder's dream,
whipped by a cloud into the obscurity of a concrete
path by a creek, flowing downstream as
water doesn't comprehend, but just does,
and I watched it, from my dead perch, where it went.

It never happened. It never will.
My will's not meant to take me any place but home.
So I say I flew, I have defeated and triumphed,
and I disregard the order of events to impress,
yet, even this, now, doesn't satisfy.

The moments pass, the moment remains.

At Last

I have responsibility
to let go of sensitivity
lest it break the trust
that pours through me
and waters down
all it cannot see;
and sensitivity
hurts my honesty
blindly keeping at bay
the falling ashtray
supposing mistakes
rookie mistakes, it takes
heaven from its own
and mine, and home
it brings me back
and all it asks today,
all it asks right now,
is that I let it free,
sensitivity,
to cure me.
My responsibility,
all it asks of me,
is not to hold my scream in
nor boil my anger,
but to let the river flow
and wash the horror
from my eyes, and tongue,
and brain cells.
It will be the same day
that I wait in patience,
no longer waiting for love.
That same day, this day,
I christen with my soul
as it moves into redemption.

Where The Bus Stops

A loud nothing, detonating
aloud; proudly I believe
I can resuscitate my own,
before it kids with who I see ahead.

Echoes bantam on the sidewalk.
I'm running tip-toed through the fray
that I can hear but I bet that guy
who's waiting for the bus cannot;
he's got his iPod in his ears
listening to sprockets turn,
living something dead
until he's one with what he wants.

I wonder if his music's mine,
at least in like, so that we can
at some point, be together and not
exchange glances that avoid.

Looking into his eyes,
I see myself speak, harm done,
yet not in the conversation,
because he's waiting for the bus
and frankly, I don't know where he's off to,
another station on his mind map,
searching in the struggle of signs
for himself, as he moves right past.

After The Tsunami Struck

Pulled the earth's weight away,
now I've had enough.
It gave way beneath
and I'm back in God's hands,
disillusioned,
yet crying for what could have been
yearning for what I have seen,
but in pain for it was not to be
and never will have; insanity.

God, this. This has ended.
And my insides crave for otherwise,
for what I could see with sightless eyes,
yet you promised none of it.
Why did I think I could attain
what is not attainable?
How can I achieve the impossible?
And what now? There's nothing left.

He's gone, just as you have asked, loved together.
I budged a place, I lied to my own face
about everything, about possibility,
about my lack of expectations.
Yet I could not rid myself of them,
so I hid, glossed, ignored them,
and they blew up to make notice
of the mess I was making.

This, this comes out of despair.
I cannot believe my jealousy, my hate,
yet it surges and is so misunderstood
that the path's become a crossroad
with a million and two pathways:
one for me, and one for him.
I go to kill, he goes to life.
And I so desperately want to go with him.

But I can't, this isn't right,
I say I loved him, and he didn't back
and we left ourselves unchained
and I watched his back and then his shadow
as it crept away.

Me? I don't know.
Where do we go from here?
How do we carry on?
I can't get beyond the questions.

But, God.
Please do.
Please, help me realise what is not real
ain't.

Her, Her, But Him

It's an evening rain
I long
to touch sensitivity in my hand,
give it just a lightest tickle
to tell me how I feel, really.

She's here, for the taking,
but it's only his attention that I want.

She's whole,
yet she's my means and passover
to the other side I deem my home and happy place.

He's listening to this,
my play on words built up a scene.
He can't tell I'm acting,
neither can I,
so we sit and wait, an eager audience,
though the difference is I'm playing.

I'm playing him.
That guy, man, do I even know his lines?
They just seem to come up
without a prompt and cue and I say them
out loud, by his radar ear.
My fear, bubbling away discreet, streets
down - I'm running away gunning
for reality.

One shot, it's dead, I'm dead.
It remains,
but there's blood everywhere
and rubble
and underneath the shattered structures of trust
lies the culprit bomb, impending,
suspiciously vacant.

I want him. I can't have him.
I am him. I don't know him.
I want her to get to him.
I'll hurt her.
I can't have her, nor her eyes.
I still want him, my brother.
I want the truth, these lies.

And all for completion.
God, what am I doing?
If there's no doubt as to what lies ahead,
why am I seeing double?
And actually, what am I to do,
who am I to be,
that I don't turn away each time
fear talks back to me?