Poetry
This is the general category of fuckery that goes on and on and doesn’t seem interested in stopping.
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The twisting sky begins to fall gently, there is nothing else to the day.
The nothing that shouldn’t be considered nothing but it was to me.
Still I tried to justify some how justify the leaving alone of someone who was trying too hard to put on somehow a brave face how were the cracks missed I
Then I wonder as I continued if I wasn’t written off, couldn’t even think about it.
What is another lonely day in hundreds?
I still don’t understand why I have been sentenced to this silence
Have you not touched someone in days? Weeks? How do people live like this?
I wonder and wander in this endless dream.
They keep saying it ends, but it hasn’t.
It just got boring.
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Sometimes it hits me, how easy it is for people to leave behind someone who is begging them for anything.
One word. From the beginning all that was asked for is one word,
It couldn’t be afforded.
It’s so easy to pretend someone doesn’t exist, for other people.
I never understand it, the ease of dropping another life and walking away.
Lies drip from venom tipped fangs like molasses. It runs down hill, it screams in the silence.
The lights on the hill aren’t visible.
All of these nightmares and begging to be let out of it, granted strangers don’t owe anything.
Yet I thought…
Such foolish wondering when after all this time the answer is clear.
Do not reach for them they turn you away.
The lights on in the darkest night don’t turn you away, but these people will.
They will turn you away and they do not wish to help.
Please, please just tell me I’m real.
Please acknowledge that I felt pain and it was the worst I have ever been forced to live through.
Please don’t look at the tattered and burnt cape of love that doesn’t look as good as it once did.
If it was a test it was cruel and the orchestrators cruelest that I have ever known.
How easy it was for the one person who I needed to see me to not, and then scream go away over and over.
How easy it was for the person who I tried to support to ignore it, brush it aside in silence.
How easy it was for the one left after the one left to come and go in the night. Like I’m nothing.
How easy it was for my family to disown me and turn me out.
How easy it was to drop my soul in the well for a wish that no one cares that I’ll never tell, but the silence assumes I am a terrible being.
We are not all in this together.
They tried to cover my mouth and block out my eyes. They tried to break my only remaining coping mechanism
With silence.
I begin to wonder if it’s not all a ruse.
If they actually care about anything.
Wondering if I threw literal gold at them if they would see me.
Still nothing.
Gold diggers?
They of course mean themselves.
I’m worth more than their numbers.
Human lives should be worth more than numbers.
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At the beginning of the year there is speed, growth, knowledge, the love of years past create the new, the green.
The warmth and fire of summer, one left behind in the middle
The storms and the rumble of the fall as the many things go to their rest, a reminder of time passing.
As it cools into the darker winter, the ocean and sky remaind, and though the end is found, as it passes in a strange alternate,
There is more beyond it, it doesn’t end there.
It continues, farther, beyond the flaming bear and the prince behind the dust, farther than the flaming clouds of hourglasses, horses, life and crabs,
How long does it go on for? Is it time or length? How does one measure the sheet?
And within the blank inbetween, the voice of a thing that is that exists, looking somewhere to the lights. It proclaims its existence.
Is it just a 0 between the 1 in the fabric of the coding of the cold and the out?
I shouldn’t think that nothing is truly nothing.
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An upside down discarded shoe near a sign fallen over and the sign of the stone bent in on itself.
A particular tree with the flowers around, a child’s bib.
The green stone stands next but there is no exit there, this tree is nettled and blue.
Purple and velvet, a beautiful garden,
An old grey dog stands watching in silence.
The road comes to an end underneath the willow tree,
But we don’t know what wants to be heard.
The words that come out, what if they aren’t how you want them to be?
A rambling list of things that jump out, before textuality before it connects to anything.
Without words being written, when they are spoken they still echo.
But I still don’t know why it’s like this, or if it ever would have gotten better if we had met.
I wanted it to stop by the meeting.
Who knows.
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Technicolour angels. Wings of the colour palette mixed and colours that fade and mix.
Colours beyond what is known and seen, not holes or black, or grey, or white, colours that don’t exist.
This unknown unseen beauty, the call of someone, the sound of something.
It gets harder to picture the future, but it whispers nonetheless.
Bits and pieces.
Knowing and seeing is far safer than telling. There is nothing to tell to those who wouldn’t see, only the scrambling of piecing together the ashes that burnt around
As the silence weighed heavier every day, worse than gravity.
The willingness of humans to ignore that which they don’t wish to see.
Everything was right in front of them, there was so much to see, but fear of mistakes brought it to a stop
And bringing it back ended up being just another part of someone else’s song.
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In the clouds where the arachnid queen waits she is ready,
Does the gravity get me? Does the gravity catch me?
An endless sea of air as the ocean is far but beautiful we want to see her, in her beauty when she is calm and peaceful
Trapped within a bubble that threatens to burst if we continue by this path that hurts worse.
What hurts worse though? What did we miss?
Beyond the reaches of the outside stand billions upon billions of others and being one in that mass is a statistical impossibility it is highly unlikely so we hear a bird calling and feel the burn of legs standing perfectly still.
There’s an outside to it but it’s harder to get to than any vision of the stars they speak of other things, nostalgia on the line as the ages old light finally finds a target.
The arachnid queen is a river and a waterfall she is far away, she is falling down slowly there.
The rest are dispersed.
The light of love appears in the yet lit sky of what twilight feels like. Backwards. With no chance of context.
The books that sit in their boxes laugh.
I hadn’t even made that connection.
Now the proof of it is gone.
Elucidating Questions 