Lamenting

Contained within my mind
is a windstorm:
a peculiar sense of falling.
Thoughts whirl
past regrets
never escaping these epidermis
padded walls.

In my peripheral,
I see
seasons change
ever passing,
lamenting,
its colors burning away.

My heart beats
a song of darkness
as I mourn these simple truths:
Silence, Simplicity, and Solace.

For now,
I await winter
and its piercing stare,
regretting the icy nights
remaining just a needle prick away.

Social Phobia

Social Phobia

 

This weathered leather chair

sits before me.

Its aged skin

screams mortality.

Sitting still

With an identity actualized

By the world:

Simply a chair

that cannot think.

 

For now,

I sit apart

Existing in between

syllables that ring

like

one, two, three

tolls of a bell

cracking the night’s silence—

pulling me away

from one truism:

Unique is ok.

 

Observe me while you will

With your gold plated spectacles

That scream scrutiny,

And observe:

climb the stairs of my throat

up my brain stem

into my brain,

see my mind

separated like chloroform

severing consciousness.

 

I look upon the

screen that plays my thoughts,

unraveled

geometric patterns

that will never connect,

a skeleton smashed,

its alabaster bones

lain strew:

the delusion of my social interactions.

 

A knife,

a blood streaked screen.

I commit suicide once in my mind,

then in reality:

impulses exploding,

spattering a deep red.

Behold my actions spawned

from my thoughts

encrypted

like the DNA of an alien

pouring

from the faucet

of my mind

into reality—distorted, cryptic patterns of my daily

social logs.

I remain a puddle

without a ripple,

frozen over, cracked.

 

The doctor says this is irrational,

But I just don’t know.

 

For now,

I will sit

In this weathered leather chair,

comfy as it envelops my aura

with the same simplicity

as stars falling upon the night.

 

 

 

Separation’s End (revised)

This weathered leather chair

sits before me.

Its aged skin

screams mortality.

I exist in between

the syllables it rings

like

one, two, three

tolls of a bell

cracking the night’s silence.

climb the stairs of my throat

up my brain stem

into my brain,

my mind—

separated like chloroform

severing my consciousness.

I look upon the

screen that plays my thoughts

unraveling

geometric patterns

that will never connect:

a skeleton smashed,

its alabaster bones

lain strew—

this delusion of my social interactions.

 

A knife,

a blood streaked screen.

I commit suicide once in my mind,

then in reality:

impulses exploding,

spattering a deep red.

Behold my actions spawned

from my thoughts

encrypted

like the DNA of an alien

[pouring]

from the faucet

of my mind

into reality—distorted, cryptic patterns of my daily

social logs.

I feel like a puddle without a ripple,

frozen over,

cracked.

For now,

this weathered leather chair

so comfy as it envelops my aura with the same simplicity

as stars falling upon the night.

 

Social Strands

I stand, I sit
upon this weathered leather chair.
I am the epitome of my own darkened thoughts.
I climb the stairs of my throat
and up my brain stem
and into my brain,
into my mind—
separated
by a fluid wall of consciousness.
I look upon the four dimensional
screen that plays my thoughts,
my thoughts unravel,
displaying geometric patterns
that will never connect,
that will never make clear
the delusion of my
social interactions.
A knife,
a blood streaked screen.
I commit suicide once in my mind,
then in reality:
behold my actions spawned
from my thoughts.
My thoughts encrypted
like the DNA of an alien
[pouring]
from the faucet
of my mind,
through my hollowed eyes
and into reality—distorted, cryptic patterns of my daily
social logs.
Why can’t I understand normalcy
like I understand the intellectual capacity
of my mind?
Why can’t I relate to my social environment in the same fashion
as I relate to Purpura or Slater or Elliot?
This weathered leather chair
so comfy as it envelops my aura with the same simplicity
as stars falling upon the night.

New York

Let me tell you…
This happened in New York.
He was feeding the pigeons
Shreds of bread—
His papa’s bread
From the bakery.
They pointed and laughed at him.
Though
He was a clever boy.
Threading a string
Upon a pigeons foot
And flying away—
Far from them.
The next morning,
The paper read:
“Children in Park Spot UFO Dangling From a Bird.”
Nor there, or there,
His identity remained
unknown.

Tears

They say men don’t cry.
They say they don’t cry—not all.
When they hurt themselves,
They don’t cry.
When they lose a game,
They don’t cry.

But sometimes men cry.
When we feel empty,
Like our soul has been sucked dry by the world,
When we just want to die,
But we have to live for other people,
When we feel lonely enough…
Lonely enough to accept
The company of our most intimate demons,
Sometimes men cry.

Men cry the tears
Of poetry shed by our perceptions:
Brutal, misled, hopeless
Analytical thoughts
Tainted by our past,
Perceived by the present,
Tears as faithful as rain falling from the sky.

It’s like receiving a letter stating:
“You’re dead,
Though you’re still alive.”
Sincerely,
Your Demise.

Busy

Across the way
Neon signs light the vacant gas station,
Screaming for attention.
4 a.m.
A man sits in a beater truck
Wearing only a fedora
Where are his clothes?
People,
Who are these people
Gathering at this stop?
Perhaps their last moment.
So much attention
For a place still closed.
A boy puts his bike down;
A girl ties her puppy to the post.
Down. Away. Closed.
In the moment nothing happens,
Yet so much attention
For a store still closed.
The boy and the girl
Each
pull out a piece of paper
and write out of service across the front:
he places his by his bike
and she places hers by her puppy.
They both go to sleep.
The man in the truck wonders about these two.
I sip my coffee
Wondering what he is doing at a gas station
Still closed.