Tag: isolation

Prisoners

It's hard to love a prisoner, I know,
I too was locked away before we met.
The flower shut in a box will still grow,
But not to bloom: its fruit is regret.
I know you can find your freedom yet;
You don't have to change yourself quite so much.
Only give yourself the courage to bet
On your desires without needing to clutch 
Expectations of them. Our kind are such
That define and find our passions in pains
And restrictions; I admit there's a touch
Of attraction to lows, a kink for chains.
If you tie me up, I'll free you for fun.
We're prisoners of what we haven't done.

He’s Isolated

He's isolated, without friends,
And then I realize so am I.
Employment gives me my supply
Of socialization, but spends
It on itself; likewise upends
Plans with Hayden or with Chris. Lives
Provide obligations to tie
Each one of us to his own lens.

It may be truly as he grieves,
A shared act of creation must
Be made for his friendship to leave
The dungeon of his spirit's rust.
He needs saving from desuetude;
He works too hard to rest unviewed.

Problems of Experience

It's strange, I've always lived near water, but
I've never been on a wave-striding ship;
Never traveled on the char-belching train,
Nor to a metro ever descended.
I've flown twice, both times were quite unpleasant.
I did ride the bus once on a late night.

My own quandary of opportunity:
In some ways too much, others not enough.
Born into a lens both close and remote,
An existence both strange and typical,
A small life of idiosyncracies
Spinning on the fringe of a family,

Abiding in the shell of employment,
And scuttling among intimate sands
Which only a temporary few see.
Individuated yet standardized.
Delivered to concrete nurseries sat
On top of systems of gray tumuli.

The cloistered taste of a car ride to work,
The connectivity that bores straight through 
Hearts of peoples, a cavern of fogged glass
Hazing infinite personal corners.
A secret trend of water which becomes
Grinding dust piling in obscurity.

Everyone's. Intimate universals.
I don't think it's hell anymore, but he...
And it's only because of him I don't.
He needs an assurance that I can't give,
A worth assessment I'm unqualified
To draft. Appraisals all proffered in vain.

The art of life hides in single vignettes,
In cringe-inducing squeaks of affection
Only one other is allowed to hear;
Which circumstances set the scene for that:
The way his eyes touch me across the room,
Two dorks who somehow found each other's life.

He begs me, how will I recreate him
When he succumbs at last to hopelessness;
How can I fashion his desire's likeness,
How characterize his need for purpose,
His sketching hands working wood waywardly,
His eye that shutters on rainbow fabrics;

I hope someday he comes around, accepts 
Life as we could be sharing it right now.
He could unfold into so many sparks.
Rather than smoldering rage from the past,
He can rekindle brilliant burning tears
Dropped from a point-of-view only he knows.

Our problem lies in our experience.
What secret language is ours to convey
Nebulous commonalities distilled,
The nighttime jokes incomprehensible,
But in our bed makes laughter reign supreme.
Bike helmet with inverted cyclist crest.

If everyone has something they could share,
Is the key not in how these looks are framed?
We thirst for novelty of perspective;
What's something only we'd know of?
Did you ever hear the one about the
Famous Satanist? He Thelema dick.

Changeling

The world is cold for babies born on fire,
Born to an addicted open secret.
The arbiters of order do not weep,
Their rule navigates on a tearful sea;
They're blind to them. A world with eyes downcast
Hurries along, greasing its gears with blood.

An inheritor of doubly-cursed blood,
But still a child with the spirit of fire;
Yet convinced their being is void, downcast,
Born a refugee of wars kept secret.
Childhood, an island in the stonefaced sea,
Smacks with wonder, but fear enough to weep.

And so he grew, differently, he would weep,
Afraid of a chill that runs through his blood,
Barely comprehended deep in the sea
Of adults' opinions and burns like fire
From other children's glances. Some secret
Rift separates, blown by a bolt downcast.

What does it mean—human—for one downcast
From ideal oblivion? All kids weep,
But tears like oil slither with a secret:
That he will not continue his line's blood.
While they could share the creation of fire,
A dirge beckons him down into the sea.

He snatches a breath, choking as the sea
Submerges his ears and nose; lost, downcast,
He crawls pronated to each distant fire,
Specters in the glittering sands which weep.
Can he even have what runs through his blood?
His unreachability his secret.

The mirror's years refused to keep secret
The prognosis of loneliness. A sea
Of whiskey and narcotics in his blood
Carries him from his own body's downcast;
Failing each time he tries to love, he weeps.
Did he wish for an all-consuming fire?

For fire it was—it burned every secret
And leapt, weeping, into memory's sea:
His downcast grimace in a pool of blood.

What You Turn From

The saddest aspect 
Of anorexia is,
Romance requires food.
So much intimacy lost.
Sharing of subsistence, lost.

I'm on the outside
Of the crucial traditions,
Far from recipes
And family gatherings,
Elfin, alien, lonely.

You

You may not think highly 
Of your lot, but blink away
The tears of now. Look ahead,
Peer into how struggle strays.

Turn forward to a new
Force that can burn through a phase,
Work and time to find you've found
The circle you'd roundly raise.

Open your mind, even 
to slopes and blind, snaking slants.
Emphatic mood resonance:
The attitude makes the man.

There are some, very few,
Who are coming. Share your hand
Fearlessly and even-willed;
They'll appear, you'll build the band.

Someday a collective
Will plumb technics you design.
You shall aid their creation,
Trade views from your mended mind.

So for now, don't dismay;
Don't throw down your efforts through
This blue weave of depression.
I do believe. Yes, that's you.