is it?

am i allowed to tell it like it is? i feel veiled and slightly filtered. i feel like i should be able to tell it like it is. but i am not sure if i do. sometimes i believe that i the story i represent of myself is true. like, i really am that fierce. like i really am that brazen. but i dont tell it like it is. i tell the veiled, the filtered version.

if i was allowed to tell it like it is, really tell it like it is, then there would be an intensifying disdain for my presence. there would be an ever present caution of character when i arrived. that might be cause for me to become brazen. but i dont tell it like it is. i tell the version that your ears are hearing.

if it was allowed for you to hear what i am saying, really telling it like it is, then there would be a real genuine empathetic growth in relationship. an understanding of expression and not an attack on what the original interpreter suggests it means. but that would take a miracle, to hear it like it is.

it doesnt feel like i am able to tell it like it is. it is personified through the filter of personal experience and interpreted with a lens of altered perception. though it may be of the same resonance, it is never the same received as to which it was delivered. hear it, but not like it was.

would i be able to receive it like it is. it is a pondering that lingers. i applaud jokingly for myself as i attempt to persuade myself to believe that i would have none of the altering that i accuse generally amongst fellow human. that i would be able to hear what is being told  to me like it is as a genuine expression of their inner heart and world and it is their process that is true and therefore important to tell. for me to help them understand that yes, empathy and love are a real thing.

I need…

To be told I’m loved. Even if it’s late.

To be told I’m loved. Even if it’s early.

To be told I’m loved. Even if I know it.

To be told I’m loved. Especially before I sleep.

To be told I’m loved. Especially when I am sad.

To be told I’m loved. Especially when I’m being difficult.

To be told I’m loved. Every time I’m full of doubt.

To be told I’m loved. Every time I want to run away.

To be told I’m loved. Every time I feel distant.

To be told I’m loved. Proved by desired time talking.

To be told I’m loved. Proved by asking me to be near.

To be told I’m loved. Proved by asking about my heart.

To be told I’m loved. Providing a safe space for my healing.

To be told I’m loved. Providing open ears to hear my feelings.

To be told I’m loved. Providing a vision of love without fear.

To be told I’m loved. Desire to share time and energy.

To be told I’m loved. Desire to learn more and connecting deeply.

To be told I’m loved. Desire to know and inquire my mind.

To be told I’m loved. Devotion of kindness and empathy for my pain.

To be told I’m loved. Devotion of priority to reflect affections.

To be told I’m loved. Devotion to my being, because of love, only love.

factual fiction

I don’t wanna do this anymore and by this I mean that and by that I mean whatever it is that proclaims to be fact.  in my experience, fact is just a misconception of perception. Fact is we are just an example of an alternative personification.  there’s more layers to it than just one or two, which will encapsulate the idea of what it means to be you. You have to go down at least six or seven personas further. Fact is we are just fiction covered in a multiple media moldable plaster of lustre. Overwhelming the egos stature or, boasting that its perception is the only one available or factual. Fact being prepared and produced through the eyes of the one who lives in self-induced demise. Always implying that what they are saying is no way displaying an active disapproval or an act of a mouthful of lacked truth, full of Words that are heard but have no definition. words that are delivered to be accepted without friction, just factual diction. again, encouraging you to understand that it can no longer stand to be what is held on the pedestal of undeniable truth, no longer served to our famished and truth-seeking youth. fact is the words are regurgitated fractions of agitated hack jobs applying for the positions of manifesting life long words of manipulated wisdom. its looking grim, son, so i am done, i don’t want to listen anymore to the distortion of fact in your swoon song.

it tries

it took a little longer but it has come again, and the interest of keeping its company is wearing incredibly thin. it is not welcomed and never invited to stay, yet no matter how many times it is dismissed, back to me, it finds its way.

why is it so insistent and why does it think it is wanted? it only leaves me hollow and my soul left haunted. it begins by tip toeing a twirl around my spirit, and tries to offer a swoon of songs, starting so softly, alluring me to hear it.

how many times have i looked into its implying eyes, intentions of hope while the path laid ahead is paved by lies. how many times have i fallen into its hand basket, so pretty and made well..i cry out simply, too many too many too many to tell.

it takes opportunities to jab its insults, leaves remnants of disturbance, radical distortions and tumult. even among the scattered shrapnel and debris, it spins its webs of false ideas and ideals, waiting to snare its prey, me.

i stand with resistance and beg for it to leave, disappear, don’t return. stop looking at my soul to set your fire in, find nowhere else to burn. enticing me, with its smoking curls and its beckoning brimstone, i run, i seek refuge in love, that is my home.

lying smiling

you hear my laughter and think that it is joy, that sound must be what it is.

the situation will often determine that it is my mechanism of defense .

you see me smile and think that it is happiness, the curve of my lips.

the length of time it rests on my face, is the real qualifier of if my happiness exists.

 

tell me the difference between the lamented grin and the forced smirk

who has the job that is supposed to make my heart’s smile work?

the technician sees the upward turn and thinks its a professional perk

yet never reads the manual, just goes on assumption while the sadness lurks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shallow slide

thin top, skin line, just reaching the surface of whats on my mind. only briefly brushing on topic offering a skimp of your time. continually trying. often defying what it is that i have been relentlessly defining. implying that satisfaction is just as fleeting as fashion always pulling a distraction from anything factual. just enough to impress on as emotional yet not contractual. cannot commit to the thick of it. just enough to soften the rough bit, bitten from the tip, leaving behind all that is really underlying, the depth of the call, the start of the fall. Falling deeper into the crevasse of desire, wanting the soul to be the subject to inquire. Passionately engulfed by the fire, staying upright on the high wire of presenting face while Love is locking into a dangerous place. Shallow pools still aren’t safe. How do you grab a life jacket when it’s material is lace. Not able to withstand any extenuating circumstances that require a longer observance than the effortless sideways glances. And still yet entranced with the chance that change is in the future plan. A stand for the grand entrance into the meaning of soul. A vibration to visually uphold and come closer to listen as its story begins to unfold. Uncreasing each layer from warm center to the extended edge’s cold. Examining the veins trenches as it’s red carpet unrolls. Pouring along the outline in shades of burgundy . Like truth spilling out as it was intended to be. Still exploring the vast and the void that is stored inside, showing off that it’s only crime is draining personal depth to honor its pride. Back behind the sheer curtains and passing connectivity aside.

Do I though?

I know what’s happening. The behavior is extremely predictable. I know what’s happening. The aversion to the truth is detectable. I know what’s happening. The energy is palpable. Why don’t you just let me know. If that’s the truth you live in, just let me go. Be honorable.

Unexplainable

in the land of coincidence this was the most generous description of happenstance. it wasn’t like it was just a casual encounter or a quick side eyed glance. it came across as poignant decision making lacking any evidence of chance.

a change was noticed and the energy fell weak. the exchange of interest softened below the peak. it became directed elsewhere and the loss was not meek. somehow fainting in persistence week by week.

an energy brewing and thickening each day creating suffocation. a knowledge among the stars shining down inappropriate provocation. and an air about it ruminating vanity, causing a personal indignation.

Tangible in the smell of something not quite right in the senses. Any attempt of clarification builds up an unnecessary display of defenses, only confirming the initial questioning of advances.

It’s a cosmic awareness of conversations employed. Communications offering disdain to the committed love joy. This Layering of perspective creating new versions of allowing a secretive ploy.

Encouragement of union and unity is on a wavering foundation. Opportunity presented daily for egoist masturbation gives a slide of hand to genuine and pure intention. castrating genuine and symbiotic connection and affection.

Gripping onto a slippery slope of ideas and projecting. Never ending the questioning with a confirmation or upfront viewing. Only hiding. Only silently replying. Only giving all into something that is mystifying.

My house is so quiet

My house is so quiet. There is no one here but me. I’m not used to this feeling.

My house is so quiet. My mind is incredibly loud. I’m trying not to be proud.

My house is so quiet. It is close to time for bed. I’m begging for a quieter head.

My house is so quiet. There is ringing in my ears. Maybe that is just the echoing of my fears.

My house is so quiet. It seems so lonely inside. Is it from me or you that I’m trying to hide?

My house is so quiet. I need no lights on to see. No one will notice I wear your shirt to sleep.

My house is so quiet. I wish I could know what is next. I pray for resolution, for the heart, what is best?

My house is so quiet. Maybe I’ll hear the voice of reason. I yearn for the truth and our warmer season.

My house is so quiet. I see that resemblance from us. The next choice needs to be trust.

Interesting scene

I can’t stop and it’s twisting up my head. It spills, stains my brain and makes my view full of lead. I see only nothingness as the target in my chest has been washed over as unimpressive, unimportant. It must be an imported goal, complete with unidentifiable instructions leaving a hole where it was intended to be whole. Gaping, kind of oozing from a wound that is nothing short of self abusing as I sit here expecting or even hoping for the perusing of such words I have put out to be read. Most likely taking risks of it being misinterpreted. Although that would be welcomed moreover than any false hope, and following paths that keep my interests broke. The trigger that pulled the gun of loves infliction now has chambered echoes of bottled indignation. Insulting the very beginning of held out foundational building. I keep building. Seeing with a blind intuition and leading myself into clear confusion. Seeing what’s not there, but knowing it is. Giving bits of fresh air but those breaths are short lived when I see the amount of time and space afforded to something stealing away, causing priorital decay, pushing the interests further away. With that, stay. Stay there in that example of complexity, in that world of feeling not quite wrong but rightly denying the subtle intensity. I see. It should be me, maybe too clearly I see. Maybe too clearly i just want to be seen, a scene hard to turn away from. And now, killing me, I play along, willingly. I want the heart, the soul, the brain to be freedom.