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New Poem: “introspection”

chaos in and out of everything –
cringe my way out of my skin –
turn it inside out to hide
behind the way i feel inside –

squiggle into my cavern of truth
examine the scars others left me –
leaving the gore for the world to see
as i wait for rebirth and youth –

vomiting out of my shell again
when safety prevails – so never –
a womb of quiet and contemplation –
a world lost – for now – forever –

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Doppelgänger – The Poet About the Woman

She speaks through me,
she looks like me
but I don’t want to know her –
and if she was able
to hear my voice
or heed my advice
there’s much I’d like to show her.

But turning gently
in her own sphere
she is here
but she’s not here –
No words can move
her shrunken heart
that beats a tune

And I presume
to know her mind
but I don’t understand
her kind.
And what she says
provides no clue
since nothing stays –
I guess because
nothing was true.

She confuses me –
her nonsensical speak –
her vague existence
yet more real than me.
I wish that I could do
without her altogether –
but that I cannot do
since we are bound together.

And since she does provide me
at least with inspiration
I try to be patient
I try to contain
her baser moods –
for a fashion –
and tolerate
her existence.

But how I wish that she
was more like me.

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Idealism In Hindsight

Though said that I have principles, ideals
and dreams of better futures worth the building,
is the truth not rather, somehow still,
that no thought of mine ever soared so high
that I didn’t, beneath it, secretly yearn
to shear my roots and shake off destiny
rather than transform society?

How easy to be free
when nothing holds you back.
How easy to reject the norms
when no-one cares
or perceives it as a lack –
except oneself.

So easy
except for yourself.

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What I Am

I am a stray cat nobody wants to feed –
I am an echo in the silence you create
with all the noise you make –

I am a shadow in the darkness of the night –
I am a planet knocked off course
and hidden from the light –

I am an epiphyte high on a branch, alone –
I am disguised to look like my surroundings,
so you pass me by, unknown –

I am an eye that follows you around –
I am a presence that you barely can detect,
a movement; subtle, slight

I am a shade dissolving in your light –
I am an echo in the silence you create
with all the noise you make –

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I Am the Poet of Transience

I am the poet of transience.
I am a voice that shouts unheard into a wall of noise.
I am a light that flares up, indistinguishable in the face of the sun.
I am a leaf that unfolds only to wither.

But then, aren’t we all?

I am the voice of distilled thought and feeling.
I am an experiment of Nature –
I am a being attempting to be more than I am.
I am a longing, aimed at unattainable truth and certainty.

All in all, I am human.

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Poet vs. Human

I am a 7-year-old poet,
and a 26-year-old human
but often it feels as if
the poet
has the more experience,
the more to say
and the better ways to say it
whereas the human
lags so far behind
she barely understands
the poet’s way of thinking.

She is merely the medium
from time to time
and an ambivalent one
torn between the poetry
and other pursuits.

But the poet is stronger
and speaks more convincingly
and keeps dragging her back –

if nothing else works
waking her in her sleep
with nightmares
of endless books
demanding to be written;

making her fear
that if she doesn’t write the stories now
she might never get to
and they would disappear.

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I Have a Crippling Fear of Writing

My biggest wish for the future
is that everybody would stop
pretending that they are perfect
when they all know they’re not.

My perfect scenario being
universal honesty
about our faults and fears
and vulnerability.

But since everybody else
seem too afraid to do it,
I’ll set an example myself;
just this to get started with:

I have a crippling fear of writing.
Say what?
Yes, I do!
Actually, it doesn’t have much to do with writing
but a lot to do with finding the right words to speak my mind
so that others can understand it –
now, that’s a challenge!

And it’s not that I ought to care if I get it wrong
since I don’t know the reader –
but if they were to misunderstand
and comment on it –
now, that’s where the fear comes in
since I don’t have the energy
for arguments
or even just
for civil discussions –
really, I don’t have much energy for talking
at all.

My energy needs to be carefully doled out on
worthy pursuits
rather than wasted on random things.
(Other people could benefit from the same
but lack the benefit of an enlightening diagnosis
to help them on their way) –
I cannot afford to waste energy on people
and their opinions
except those of a very select few individuals
who have proven themselves worthy of my

So I have a distinct fear of writing.
Because I have little energy for talking
and therefore little experience
in expressing my thoughts.
Because I have no education besides
programming, where you only learn
to communicate with a computer
rather than with people.
Because I have no conception of what other people might think
when they read what I write
and only vague ideas about
what other people think at all.

But perhaps that is predominantly a good thing.
I have no conception of the ridiculous prejudice
I see other people express,
or of ingrained social practices
that are outright meaningless,
or of wasting my time talking to people I don’t know
of things which I have no knowledge of
just to pass my time,
or of passing off my limited knowledge
of anything
as an absolute truth
to anyone –
on the other hand I have a crippling fear
of other people misreading me
as if the latter was the case
and no way of knowing whether or not there is a risk
that they might do so.

Above all I have a crippling fear
of being talked down to
and being talked over
because that’s comprised 90%
of all my social encounters
so far.

And so I write instead of talking
since I don’t have a voice that anybody can hear anyway
and chastise myself all the while
for not standing up, screaming,
even though I know it wouldn’t solve anything at all
if I did.