Sad Poem

The hot height
swirls smoky mists
near, never return ridge
seeing severed rock
crags created, fissures
thrust, broken, tangled
the light reflects on tiny micca
quartz or shiney surface
on walls defended by sheer
strength of impassable sharpness
falling away from the edge,
the ridge. never. return. ridge.
Stand to face, the sun
in the misty swirls
of hot heights
and there, there is no comfort
never comfort, only the constant!
The brain that never settles,
the brain that fights,
and fights for what?
To have some time alone,
to wish, not to be alone!
And know, even if out; There!
Then what… then who… what to do?
What to say, on. that. day, evening, night?
Will I say hi with a faint smile,
embarrassed of my style, the sad eyes,
the wistful pain, trying so hard to hide?
Who will listen, who will want to, why?
Why care, if I dare. to. try?
I might burst into tears, I might cry.
Like I do every time I think about this.
Every single time…
The sad, tired thoughts stop me
stop it all, and…
nothing.

Thinking out loud…

Should I describe myself, on this International Women’s Day, 2018? A cis, white male, with so much to say, and writing the outlet? I write that and it feels right, the words are truth, but I ponder the necessity of “cis” and “white male”? They’re part of a lexicon I’ve found in posts, and blogs, other’s writing, where pronouns and description are nuanced in our spectrum of humanity. That’s a humanity I desire deeply, having inclusion, where being we is normal, any way we are. I am someone more than the perceptions or norms of society, but to be and be known for these words, and not first sight, or even an awkward moment first meeting.

 

Meeting? I must work hard to manage my state of being, in order to be more outgoing, to meet friends, family, someone new. I don’t really do very much with others, and when out alone, I notice being alone. I wonder if others ponder their alone time like that? I wonder how many feel alone most of the time? Then that seems an irony to me, in that I do go out a bit, and I do see people and know a lot of people. What I mean, is that it seems none really know me, and I really don’t know them. I have learned about impermanence, and that’s such a long story, I’ll bore you with it another day.

 

I know I’m writing without purpose, I’ve declared nothing and am supporting nothing, in essence, I’m just talking a bit, it’s boring, and I’ll end with a poem.

Did you mean it?:

When we meet,

and greet

with casual

‘how are you?’

be ready to walk

and talk.