Nascent are These Seeds of Self-Affliction


I am demoralized by striking realities,
Like how I throw fits as an adolescent would,
As though I never really outgrew angst,
Or otherwise I’m steadily degenerating.

It both infuriates and eludes me to think
How you possess superlative power over me
Because of something as trivial as anatomy—
Such a shame they didn’t teach that in school.

You dangle my hopes on the periphery
Of my sanity, waiting to see what I’ll do;
At least that’s how I perceive these acts of outreach—
The same ones I pray for every day.

All this jeremiad really serves to do
Is demonstrate my teetering state-of-mind,
For each time I search for a face in the mirror
I only see the world, jeering at my disillusionment.




You don’t know me,
Never touched me,
Never spoken my name
In the silence, in sorrow,
For the love of God.
You’re immortal—
Caressing me ego,
But never my soul.
Like an ember I wait,
Flickering bright
In a sea of black
For a quondam glance.
All my efforts suffered
In vain attempts
To catch a mote of attention
Or a semblance of compliment.
Down in the well
It’s so easy to forget
That the water rises,
Drowning we who live within;
It surfaces for you
To sip in proportion,
Not to be overwhelmed or inundated,
But to be refreshed, made anew.
Your iridescence refracts in the ripples,
Collapsing on my conscious like a supernova,
And I remember that you’re immortal,
And I cannot touch you.