ENOUGH SAID

It’s a question mark, you know. Every time I sit to write something that’s not relevant and yet is strong, or I don’t know… I’m not able to sit this time, and I don’t know what this is about. I mean, I do know and I do understand, or maybe I don’t understand but I know all the same. I wouldn’t call this a poem, aesthetic or not, it’s just… completely irrelevant.

Fired up to spark a smile,

what I found in hers,

she found in mine;

a window to the outside world,

silent treatment to what I heard

…ten minutes of blankness past,

I’m sorry I can’t spit a word;

never have I felt so choked,

teller of the stories told,

and what would happen to me in mine?

Where’s the niche, where’s the sign?

Or should I refrain to “How many times?”

in angst against the angst provoked?

‘Inconsequence’ be my teasing find,

the edge into a depressed rhyme;

and if I turned to words, to sell,

the virtual pair of hands we held,

for all at once she took them all,

my hands, my head, my mind, my heart,

and I doubt if I can make some sense,

stringing this with what she left;

so I guess I should stop for now,

and ask my wind to open out…

I saw this girl, I saw her smile, I didn’t have a reason to not see the same, but I don’t think that’s why I looked in the first place. And there was this huge surge of feeling secure, an at-home kind of thing, and I don’t know, I thought she was giving that, I really had no part to play. And then ten minutes later, I won’t ever see her again? I don’t know, man, it’s… there’s just been too much of compliance, too much of standing still, watching things go by.

Did I think she’d not get down, or did I think she’d ask me to get down with her, it’s just… Life’s no ‘Before Sunrise’, I guess. But she was still looking and still smiling and still connecting, and I guess I didn’t play Jesse well.

I think I'm counting my six months till tomorrow. Period.