| Poems: 250517 - May 25th, 2017 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/05/25 14:12 |
250517A
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It is always the wrap
that gets to you.
That becomes the real shock
coming on to you
the way a broken romance does.
The way things that fall,
from way up among the stars,
tend to bring a shock.
It simply comes down
and you do not dare look up.
Another world closes in
on all of that trying to break free,
always locking you down and in.
The way props and costumes end up
always put away.
You want to live your dreams,
but it is the best you can ever do
to put on an act.
So you try to make do
with simulated love.
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250517B
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It seems as if it is an empty list,
as to anyone and anything
that you really wanted to happen.
An advertisement is nothing more
than another razor blade
slicing across the throat.
The same old words signifying
that you cannot go to them,
and they will not come to you.
Leaves you to wondering
about those Hollywood movies,
as to what inspired a different world.
Maybe that little bit is something true
as to where the mob drives a stake
into an unwary heart.
That becomes the starting point
and the ending,
with nothing much left in between.
We all try to fill in various spaces,
in the belief that it keeps the wind out
but knowing the chill remains.
I used to believe in chance meetings,
but even that could eventually be cured
by being nailed to the wrong trees.
It was always all my own fault
from the first breath to the last,
as to never getting it right.
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250517C
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I dwell in exile,
in preference to being forced
into any sort of common jail
with someone I do not want.
The more one wants the exception
the less that it wants you,
makes that game too hard to play,
so I left the playing table.
No point in gambling that way
when you can never win,
anything that you came for,
that you want to take home.
They claim that loneliness is too much sin
when living in a large population,
but there is always the guilt of knowing
what you do not really want to know.
Suffering the likes of feeling like,
desperately edging to break free,
until anaesthetic seems the only way
to being numb enough.
I wanted to be part of a different show,
but found that I was always written in
to a part in the wrong script,
so I refused to play the roles.
One becomes accustomed to punishments
until forgetting what it is really like
as to being rewarded;
knowing there is no consolation prize.
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250517D
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Make believe pretending
that everything is
somewhere inside of you.
You have nothing to spill out
other than your own boredom
with the provisional content.
You ask around
whether anyone knows anything
about any way out.
They never know anything,
and if they ever did
they would have been long gone.
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250517E
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Fractured thoughts,
ground up and ground down
passages of time.
Claiming dust is in the eyes,
and those are not tears
about anything ever again.
I wanted to believe
that you were something different,
so you had to prove the same.
Repeat and take as necessary,
because it should help
when nothing else does.
Turn it into a routine
and pretend that it matters,
as if that builds real meaning.
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250517F
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How could you have it so wrong
simply because you could not withstand
having it right.
As if you knew any of the real secrets
to any of the mysteries,
never having passed any of those initiations.
It is not for you to decide,
what your choices are supposed to be,
but you have to keep choosing blindly.
There is nothing much to see,
beyond a few of those same old faces,
and even they don't know what it is.
Always more rules and regulations
to help prevent you from finding
a way to affording any real solutions.
You are slowly washing away,
eroded by the torrents of information,
never finding any real answers.
Everything deteriorates to hanging on,
left at various cliff hanger endings
with no way to go but going down.
The call you wanted to wait for
is never the call that you ever get,
leaving you being the broken plaything.
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250517G
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Feeling too damp to the bone
to feel like working on anything,
you wash away a wet afternoon.
It seems to stay with you
the way a mark on the skin can remain
making you feel beastly.
You wanted to believe it could be
entirely different to how it really is,
but that is not what anything proves.
Maybe it is another science experiment
that has gone terribly wrong,
from its hypothesis to its conclusions.
You were tied tight to one formula,
only to find that it does not work,
then they told you it is too late to change it.
The reagent with nothing to react with,
that can never make it to being compounded
in terms of any of the pleasure principles.
The futility of maintaining a notebook,
as to all of what you should forget,
because it isn't really yours anyway.
You think about erasing yourself
more completely than you ever did before,
while rationalizing the futility.
You stare at openings that are closed,
once having believed in something
as to finding a better way.
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250517H
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No one said hello to you
as to anything coming from me.
They often change the name
to protect you from any innocence.
Something you would never want
to know any more of.
It would only make them laugh
as to any degree of presumption
breaching any usual walls.
That is the way it all comes down
to creating all those conditions
of one or another isolation.
I could wander streets and fields
for thousands of years,
and never find a way
to find anything but estrangements,
being forever in a no one's land
of all their endless conflicts.
I am left to trying to write something
that cannot really ever be said.
It serves as a sort of substitute
to any other struggles with white sheets,
and making various types of stains
that become at least as regrettable.
I tried to find it with someone else,
but they did not even know what it was,
and they had no idea what to do with it.
It perpetuates all those conditions
of continual discomfort,
as to goes together or comes apart.
It was your similarity
to something that I had always wanted
that misled me to the usual false hopes.
Misled by the obvious facts
that some were kept to being luckier
than you and I ever could be.
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