Love Like Introspection

Could I ever be loved as completely

As the honesty of your sincerest introspection?

Mortality and eternity,

Subjects so situated in time

That occupy my emptiness

The way I wish I was admired.

Could I fill your mind

And terrify your sense of being

In such a way as to change

The reality of your inner quiet?

People are like night skies,

Shifting their position and meaning,

So when you gaze at me

I hope you think of what you’re not seeing.

We are mysterious and complicated things,

Too important for casual recognition,

And if I’m ever to be loved again

It must be worth our fullest attention.

Snippet Of A Conversation

“Confront the facts!

You’ve hated yourself,

You’ve lived a lie!

You’re not what you present!”

“Shut up.

All persona is presentation,

It’s all a lie anyway

So what does it matter?”

“Represent someone else

And hide from what you really feel.

Is this what you really want,

Miss Freedom of Expression?”

“I’ll express what I choose.

My secrets are my own,

And does anyone really care

What I feel inside?”

“What does it matter

If anyone gives a damn?

What satisfactions comes

From dishonest expression?”

What Carries Over

Sometimes I feel better when I imagine my own conscious thought is all that exists.
The feeling of being a disembodied psyche in friction-less space,
Emptied of all but the most critical pieces of my identity
And reassembling my complexities into a more beautiful shape.
As many times as I’ve done this,
There are thoughts and patterns that persist through me,
Some I’ve cherished, others I’ve hated,
And some I couldn’t understand or even properly explain.
There are pieces that never seem to come unstuck,
Fears, attachments, and my deepest memories.
There are images and vague connections I retain,
Like pen-strokes which remain even after they’re scribbled over.
A vague, off-beat rhythm seems to drive my actions,
Unfocused or out of sync with the environment I’m in,
Curiosity, obsession, and paranoia distort my tempo,
Playing my own tune, in spite of what drums beat around me.
I’m liable to fall carelessly into the beautiful or intriguing.
My heart snaps alert, when a note, by happenstance, complements my own.
There are ideas, perceptions, and sequences of thought
That feel more like hell and like home than any real place.
Whatever I do or imagine myself to be,
There are elements of myself that remain true.
Burdens I carry, gifts likewise treasured,
And I expect they’ll remain until my mind is permanently changed.

The Girl On The Floor

DrearyAnn dressed her thoughts

In renaissance corsets and faux leather boots.

So much the better to envelop displeasure

And dissatisfaction from critical abuse.

Daydreamed hours drifted on vainly,

Vaguely insane, with morbid visions juxtaposed

More vivid and vibrant than others imagined,

So blatantly tragic in sadness predisposed.

Dreaming of dreaming of such things

As the darkest of a single dream ever saw.

Laced with lavish desires entwined

With desperate needs towering overall.

Draped in dreary phantasms galore,

Alone and on her back reposed,

Around her and over passer-bys step,

Unknowing or caring what fantasies formed below.

Streaming Life Anywhere

Judging value

In indiscriminate measure

Through the process

Of identifying constants

Amid variable personas.

Chaotic babble

Interwoven with emotions

Clouding personallities

In insepid debate

Signifying little.

Introspective hell

Latching onto safe platforms

Expressing the darkest depths

Of existential dread

In idle whispers.

Entertainment

Like an inconvenient memory

Signaling dire warnings

As questionable information

Presents itself in lace.

Daydreaming watchers

Wondering within access

On the possible implications

Of life on Mars

Or anywhere.

Complexity breeds

As simplifying destroys.

Any and all answers

Wither on

Or grow away.