The itch evolves into a scream.
The following silence strikes
to the rhythm of your fast beating heart.
The echoes reverberate through your dream,
hopes laying in neat little rows,
exhausted dreams dismembered.
I wake and choke on the residue
of the half emptied, half remembered
remains fading into the dawn.
The price of freedom
isn’t even loneliness.
Companionship can cause isolation,
and connection isn’t binary.
I admitted I don’t even like people
with reluctant attachment.
I know I’m better, and yet,
here I am again.
And I could be anyone
even if you are only you.
I step back and keep falling,
and he repeated,
“I told you about stairs,”
while trying to rewind time.
Quadrants are alien and confuse
and yet I chose to be one of four.
Adapting has only made things less clear.
Being truthful in inner conflict
is staring at several reflected, fractured shards.
I’m one of one, regardless of who I see.
I’m one of one, on my own and making it through.
I’m one of one, no matter who stares at me.
I’m one of one, with or without you.
You are just not that special, attractive
but part of ninety percent of people,
and you’re the one who responds.
All of them are flaky, so I see you out of the four
friends that are only friends.
Even if they say they love me to the moon and back
I’m a backup- It’s only hyperbole,
because I too am not that special.
In a mythical future things would be better. Isn’t this what we all think about? One day, some day, maybe next time it will turn out right, turn out better, or turn out differently.
We wish we were satisfied while we realize there would be no progress without that struggle.
We feel guilty for our dissatisfaction since so many have it worse, and it could always be worse.
We strive for something better while we grasp and fumble on the details of how one actually accomplishes such a thing. How can I make things better? Can I? If it could be done, if it were so easy, wouldn’t life already be that way?
I can make ripples as an individual, but won’t the water just return to it’s still surface? Even if we all make splashing waves, the water stays the same.
Still, I have to believe we were put here to do more than just tread water.
When I learn to swim, will the water change?
If I start to drown, will someone save me?
If you saw the morning
Flight of every day dusk
Swept into mourning
Of wants forgotten rust,
You’d hold in the dew break
And early bird frost
To take the time to make
All that would be forgotten and lost.