Tuesday, January 25, 2011
because you have no privacy;
there is no room for the honesty
of a bound book of secrets
locked and stashed beneath your mattress.
The honesty to the self is healthy
but your brain is not a tablet and
its storage space is only room enough for bits and
pieces of your whole.
You are trapped inside of y-o-u,
and everything is a blur,
and everything is falsified,
and you don't remember the last time you
had a conversation with yourself.
You cannot trust yourself.
You cannot spill your secrets to y-o-u,
because she never keeps them,
and she would judge you for them anyway.
Lie, lie, lie,
and forget that you want to be "good"
forget that y-o-u stifles you and
forget that you haven't spoken
in a while.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Words won’t ever fully get at what I’m getting at here:
a casually-tossed opinion mistaken for judgment,
an observation interpreted as vanity,
a spectacular theory on the whole of life,
never to be quite understood.
But the pictures in my brain are nothing like
the words I spew in half-assed explanation.
You don’t get me;
that doesn’t mean that I’m special.
I am like you are like he is like she is like they are like we.
Not one of us gets the other,
because our minds are transcendent,
but communication isn't.