I’m reading poetry
He’s reading headlines-
Someone else’s words
Because we have nothing to say
Between us-
That can be said by me
For both of us.

And I’m tired of the distractions
The things he finds to do
To distance from
The things that are me.
The too deepness of my conversations-
That make him feel as if he is headed for a hole
In the ground
Of my soul
Hidden by
The brush cut from branches
Fresh from the trees of my mind-
Where I’ve hung him-
At least twice.

The light of my repeated curiousities
Blind him from seeing me
As anything
Other than
To what, I can’t quite tell
And he can’t say-
But to something nonetheless
That remains known and un-named.

Not by this
Or by that,
But by them-
as they present
In a group.
In a gang.
In a crowd of more than one-
More than me.
And I watch them.
I watch him
Watch them
With interest and ferociousness.
But not really.
He watches them much like he watches me-
With boredom.
With idle disdain-
Annoyed by those things in which I question
That in turn
Lead me to question
Which leads him to question nothing.
I only wish for interest and ferociousness-
Except when I wish to not be seen at all-

  1. #1 by artzbaglady on August 28, 2014 - 10:19 am

    Love you

    • #2 by foundedna on August 28, 2014 - 10:40 am

      Love you too. Would like to know more about my life. My parents. You can email me?

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