Home » Posts tagged 'speak' (Page 2)
When I found her like
a set of lost keys,
it was a mystery even to her
where she’d been hiding
or who left her there—but
I knew that look, as I’d worn once—
and it wasn’t me anymore.
So I let her sleep.
And I let her eat.
Then after her strength regained,
I walked her to the wood,
and watched her twirl with the wind—
of all that remained,
and all she’d forgotten—
like a dizzy spell I’d soon be too.
There’s always a story to tell.
Always,
A story…
To tell—
Whatever’s in my head, is there because I put it there.
It’s there because I allow it to be.
Whatever’s in yours, is yours—I’ve no idea, nor should.
If you’re curious, you may ask and I may tell you whatever’s in my head.
I may not, though that is up to me, as it is equally up to you.
So if and when I seem distant, it’s only because I’m having an internal debate on which to share.
I’m deliberately choosing words which may or may not have an impact on your own definition of me—of you.
Whatever’s in my head may change, in fact, depending on your point of view, so tread however you will when speaking, knowing that—
Whatever’s in your head, is there because we put it there.
And we being a positive or a negative really doesn’t matter.
What matters is, matter of factly null and void, more likely because,
whatever’s in your head, is there because you put it there.
It’s there because it is, if it wasn’t then, well, we wouldn’t be having this discussion with ourselves to begin with.
See. When two people interact or share in a discussion, it’s not simply a yes or no dialogue.
It’s not simply an A and B conversation but rather an (A,(B)) + (C,(D)) process of beliefs which often can be tricky or seem unfair.
And the more you think about it, the less there is to say, because, more times than not it’s what we don’t say that often really matters.
Perhaps I haven’t found the correct words, or perhaps I’m overthinking, perhaps I’m just learning how to communicate all together on a daily.
It’s like casting a line of bate to water. If the intended fish decides to bite, then it’s fair game, but when the intended fish is forced to bite, which for lack of a better metaphor, one can’t exactly force a fish to bite, then there’s an unfair advantage.
The bate is not merely physical bate, but encompasses the mind from which it’s cast with hope, fear, and determination—etc and so on.
The fish may rationalize it’s right to choose feast or famine, ultimately accepting it’s fate regardless of the line cast, by choice of internal and external response, which leads me back to my original point being…
Whatever’s in my head, is there because I put it there.
It’s there because I’ve reserved a rationality for it, and, regardless of the outcome, it’s necessary solely to me.
Further more, what’s necessary to me—perhaps the real point here—is not, nor should be expected to be necessary to you.
Any questions?
For some reason, people
just keep on sticking around—
no matter how I push them away.
And God knows I’ve tried, yet
still as the evening air
they remain, willing and shifty
to see me from my darkness
onward, till dawn.
Where are we
but forever
Alone, together
in the cosmos
of our love.
I never wrote a word, not until
I’d said my peace,
misconstrued and gnawed on,
beaten to a pulp,
dead as embers—burnt black on arrival
to a silent mass, ready
and aching to be heard.
Being sober’s
as overrated
as being drunk—
nobody wins.
You just have to live.
What is poetry, but
a language of the dead.
It’s an informal dance,
a shared cigarette.
Poetry is
but a one night stand.
It’s a wine ring left,
sheets, stained
between strangers.
When I was a kid—after bedtime—as quietly as I could, I would crawl from my bed, onto the floor, then elbow and knee my way down the hallway to lay in the doorway of my brothers room to watch his television.
He’s four years older than I am and, well, I thought he was really cool.
One, for having a TV in his bedroom. And two, for probably knowing I was there but not saying anything.
Whatever he was watching didn’t really make a difference but it was comfortable there, on the carpet, with the blue light flashing.
A dark bedroom can be pretty scary to a child, especially during a thunderstorm.
Now that we’re older, we speak when it is necessary, but not all the time.
Probably less than either of us cares to admit.
He’s a busy working husband and parent while I’m pretty much all over the map.
Though when we do talk, it’s a meaningful talk of mutual reflection. He provides me with information from four years down the line and I remind him that I’m listening by offering whatever small insights are on my mind.
I thought he was great then and I still do now. No matter the distance the bond between two brothers is strong and unwavering.
Basically what I am saying is I look forward to the next time we’re able to watch a little TV, crack a couple jokes, and just hang out—without any pressure—even if it means the carpet or floor, that’ll be enough.
When the world
seems, to be
spinning without you—
just listen
breathe and remember
the world spins for you,
as it does that perfect stranger
who too is listening.
Words Of An Average White Male 