u/Cluelessandsexy

 Break the sheet of strangeness -The one that divides us
Reach me from across the way
I'm a guest, I'm a host, a dream, a nightmare
My pace might not match yours
Lets pretend it might all be the same
Interrupt the static and form the image
Inside the screen of these feelings

Cut open the riddle with knife and fork- prepare to digest
Splash the sauce of reason
lets sit down to eat
Eat a piece of me
God let me eat a piece of you
let's pretend it might all be the same
That your flesh might taste like mine

Break the wall that separates us- smash it with the force of your inner chaos
Let light in so things can grow off it 
Discover my exquisite hungers
Slowly uncover my skin
See how I bleed into your reality
How I linger through empty spaces
Even when I'm not there at all

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Poetry is like a tree.
Roots, trunk, branches.
Good like that.

Mine is crowded with lichen,
Fungus, epiphytes.
Too much living on it.

When stripped clean
It becomes ordinary.
Yet I dread to clean it off.

My literary heroes do it.
Have no scrapyards in their lines.
Their poems stand cold and clear.

I leave in the quips.
Reflections, morals.
Nervous meandering.

I want purity on paper.
But hear the verdict already:
He spent time writing silly poems.
To save money on therapy.

Therapy would have been cheaper.

https://preview.redd.it/ay77mbceya2h1.png?width=1024&format=png&auto=webp&s=bc843622240c389beb7ff0d551588015c81da376

How do you approach a bully?
Get under their skin.
Make them feel the discomfort.
They try to distribute on others.

They have fought to possess what they have.
They don't trust themselves to wander far from their own cage.
The bars bent into place through their own rage.
The space barely big enough to hold themselves in.

How do you teach a bully to rethink it all.
To pull them back out of their will toward abuse.
And how much of the abuse is for the other?
And how much are they retaining for themselves?

Remember the contorted face of your bully.
Such a tough front for the world.
How do we ourselves conciliate?
When we find them crying alone in the school bathroom.

Their shame compounding and reviving their sense of deep rage.
They wipe the tears that I witness, stand and push me away.
I offer the hug once more but the bully has made too much space for pain.
Love is a tyrant.

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Warum bist du hierher gekommen, um mich zu besuchen?
Ich bin dir nicht ebenbürtig, du bist Welten voraus
Ich bin der ewige Amateur, würdig des Gelächters und der Verachtung
So wie du des Beifalls und der Hingabe würdig bist

Es gibt nur wenige kleine Goldadern im Dunkel meiner Verse
Doch dein Werk erhebt meinen Geist und meine Sinne
Und sendet mich hinaus, die verstreuten Worte aufzuheben, die ich für würdig hielt
Doch kein Schädling noch Aasfresser würde wagen, sich ihnen zuzuwenden oder daran zu picken

Warum stehst du nun vor mir und blickst mir in die Augen, wie ich die Welt betrachte
Ich bin nicht würdig, mein Versuch Bedeutung zu übermitteln ist eine Farce
Ein launenhafter Scherz, den ein Mann mit nur einem Hauch von Verstand sich selbst gespielt hat
Zumindest gab es früher Zeugen, die über meine Bemühungen lachten und spotteten

Nun gibt es nur noch Stille und das Schärfen von Gedanken, um die Schreibblockade zu durchdringen
Georg, warum musst du nun dieses instabile Paradies eines Geistes heimsuchen
Mit deinen klaren und feinen Gedanken
Die den Tod mit so vielen Farben malen, dass man ihn für einen Schwindel halten könnte

Bis die verborgene Sense durch irgendeine gespenstische Metapher erscheint
Wirst du mir sagen, dass ich deine Krankheit habe
Oder deren minderwertige Form
Du solltest dich an die Decke hängen und mich verspotten, wie meine Gleichaltrigen es einst taten

Denn ich verwandle nichts und nenne mich dennoch einen Dichter
Ich überspringe Satzzeichen und schmiede Pläne, Perfektionisten zu töten
Ich könnte ebenso gut aufgeben, damit unsere Geister frei sprechen können

https://preview.redd.it/b4vfb58rm62h1.png?width=1024&format=png&auto=webp&s=50b659d13cc39166393fa83387c80749c6e4b0d2

Why have you come here to visit me?
I am not your equal you are a distance ahead
I am the ongoing amateur, as worthy of laughter and derision
As you are of applause and devotion

There are few little veins of gold within the darkness of my verse
Yet your work lifts my mind and my senses
And sends me forth picking up the littered words I thought worthy
Yet not a pest nor scavenger would dare turn or peck

Why do you stand before me now and look into my eyes the way i do the world
I am not worthy my attempt to transmit meaning is a farce
Is a whimsical joke a man with just an inkling of wit played on himself
Atleast before there were witnesses to laugh and taunt my efforts

Now there is just silence and the sharpening of ideas to penetrate writer's block
Georg why must you now haunt this unstable paradise of a mind
With your clean and delicate ideas
That paint death with so many colors you would think it a hoax

Until the hidden scythe appears through some haunting metaphor
Will you tell me I have your disease
Or the inferior version of such
You should hitch youself up to the ceiling and mock me as my peers once did

For I transform nothing and count myself a poet
I skip punctuation and plot to kill perfectionists
I might aswell give up, so our ghosts can speak freely

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Because you..

Because sometimes I saw you. Simple innocent grace would leap into me.
Tearing my heart to pieces when all I wanted was a connection.
The invisible wall between us built of shame and expectations.
I pretended I knew how you tasted on my tongue and how you felt under me.
But it was all something I brewed over months in my head.
Too much sugar not enough yeast.
I wish my eyes were better at hiding at exactly what flows through unhindered.
I checked the iron that surrounds us.
Just to see if it had cooled down.
But it was still red hot.
And there was nowhere to hide as you arrived and as I left.
You read my face my feeling disclosed.
I pretended to walk out confidently head high, but I was still wobbly because an ounce of your grace weighed on me.
Affecting my ability to exit cleanly.

Yesterday I got laid off, I walked out of the burning building.
It was cartwheels in the parking lot.
It was splintrering wood.
It was broken bridges and sheer force of shamelessness.
I told the boss he'd know where to stick it.
I had to recruit all of my arm strength.
To smash him through the window.

You KPIs, bonuses and standards.
I am here in the middle of your assembly.
Factory line grunts, burp, fart and spit.
Walking in and out.
Robots will replace them soon.
So I stole the gasoline from the depot.
Covered the factory floor.

I'm working up to that blaze.
Blame it on one of the disgruntled.
But you caught me with the lighter in my hand.
So I passionately kiss the human resources pretender
So she might save my job, anti safety high heels deny.
She knows how to sing my praises.
Now shes processing my dismissal.

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This is a depiction of the wanderer. Or Odin as he is recognized. The spirit of Odin crossing the land, speaking the language or birth and death, interacting with the seasons and finding his own divinity in movement. Creation and destruction.

Under the banana grove
The hound exploded

Pieces of him flew in every direction
He didn't have time to yelp or reflect

He was a great dog we shared admiration and love
We spent countless afternoons looking at each other

I would take him on long walks and runs even in bad weather
We were troublemakers and adventurers together

Now he was separated into pieces of bloody meat
Soon vultures would be dining, his flesh to eat

So I piled him up and dug a hole tears flying off me
Then sat back down to my mourning coffee

What would I do with his remains? How would memory last?
Would I just shovel pieces of him in the ground as compost?

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I lay her on the sheepskin.
The aggressive one.
The prison is cold.

There is no consent for anything.
My eyes follow the flow of her.
My finger tip makes contact.
The blues swirling patterns on her body.
The prison is quiet.
Because I am a tyrant.
She resists so I take her back to her cell.
Memorizing her curves.
I give her fresh clothes and soap.
But she just looks at me with those eyes,
that say if she had the chance she'd stick me.

Watch me bleed out slow.
Swing kicks into ribs help me on my on my way.
But she is chained cursed like skin ink.
Her cell's bars of frosty steel.
Floor is unforgiving cold concrete.
Punishment raw, hard and evident.
I make my way back down the long corridors.
Back to my office piles of release/parole forms.
my old dog looking at that sheepskin.
But he can't sleep there.
That is only for her.
The ember in my ash of a world.

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Your presence pleases me so much. I said.
It's not my job to please you with my presence. she said.
That's so true. I said.
And we went about our business.

Me, still thinking about you.
You, so healthy have moved on.
Sometimes I thought I might have a spark.
For that kindling between us.

A man is told to pursue at all costs.
To accept a temporary set back.
reformulate the game plan.
Sound confident with charm.

Your presence pleases me so much. I repeat the next day.
Get away from me you fucking maniac. She insisted flinching.
So I turned my gaze and moved away from her.
Her words said I was not welcome

But her eyes said I had left it too long.
Her eyes said that part of loving her was loving her restlessness.
Timing is something I'm still learning to master.
Not an excuse a girl like her would care to hear.

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I saw his name and photo on the milk carton below.
In a tone of black and white only purgatory would allow.
A youth who disappeared into the world somehow.
Or tragically was taken and remains under the dirt.

I analyze his face imagining his mother's concern.
The fate of her boy she still waits to learn.
Compare the image of his face when he disappeared.
With today's simulation that the carton bears.

Those sad hopeless eyes that seem to convey a hidden pain.
Couldn't they have chosen a picture less such disdain.
Fate had decided by the ill omened photo someone took.
If his face wasn't sorrowful noone would even look.

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