Boldly awkward, I can be.
As much of my prominence lays in the head, less so my mouth.
I’ve always been more of a writer than a talker.
I don’t talk really great, but writing I do.
The separation between the two, like a vast chasm with no bridged point.
Most of my recent moments, fraught with feeling outcast but also intuitively seeing similarities between individuals, as if being common brought sanity to all.
Commonality in high composure and astute speech.
From the outside, it’s all there, but inside, hardly think it’s anywhere at all.
You can see it in the eyes, the solemn bravado lay waste in pupils and irises.
Gazes aren’t straight, words are quick, witted and wispy.
All waiting for a turn to speak, rather than listen to the speaking.
For in that specific silence, most will meet the subjugation of innermost traumas.
Has a whole world gone mad, on insolence or veiled reasonings..
Aside from the chatter.
When a mind breaks open, to all the fragrant possibilities,
It is those who remain shut, who wield the torch and pitchfork.
Consistently spinning the same gear against the same mechanism that brought forth a hollow sound that rang in all ears.
But never stopped ringing..
Every thought I speak,
Met with dismissal or wandering murmurs..
A fish born on land, a wasp making nest in the sea.
Such a tragedy, like a ghost wafting in the air,
So I am