Thursday, 15 September 2011

A poem on my feelings of late

No one will ever know what Im capable of when I feel comfortably alone.  No ear that I’m aware of will ever be struck by a sound of the things I can say to myself in solitude. I have yet to let anyone read the deep thoughts and navigate the catacombs of my solipsistic, selfish consciousness—conversing with itself, confusing my body, tossing me against the walls of my skull like a bully.  The mind full of odium, tries to break itself. Intense feelings of desire that cripple, unfulfillable. Like a fire of wet sticks, crying tears of steam in the rain, I exist, crooked and immobile. 

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