No Talent.

Why are we so ignored? Extolling their virtues while we cry. Who am I? I am the one who can't sing, can't draw, can't write. I am the epitome of untalented persons everywhere; I am so lost in my own mind that you'll never get me out, never even find me. I am the one lost to madness as you scatter your hopes and dreams in favour of something worthwhile. They don't even look at you, you're not special, you can't do the things they can. They'd rather hire talent than you, and your career becomes something dull and dry that you never wanted. You can't marry for love if you have no art, you can't love your children if you don't love your life. And you have no talent! Who are you to become if not one of the unknown? After all that praise nothing is done, all that sacrifice just for one measly paycheck every week, enough to live but not to sleep, and all you do is say you're afraid and not good enough but WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE? Because there aren't enough people who care about you, there aren't enough people who care like you do, but you're still so tired. So very, very tired, and you'd like all those voices to stop, please stop, please stop.

Colour Contamination

Why are there contaminated rainbows? Black, grey, white are not colours, shades that don't belong in these spectrums. So why are there streaks of black? The rain can't wash them away – why are there streaks of blood running down the arcs, dripping on my face, held up to behold the colours which fade and die under their disease which will not be cured by the warmth or the sun, arriving now and the colours appear in all their glory and the black grows in like a rotting mold bleeding dark red leaks onto our heads, innocently searching for hope that the dark skies bring us, now from lands far away, far from out land of ice and snow, slowly thawing out the traditions of our kind of ideas, and yet the colours which bring salvation to our minds bleed into our eyes instead, blinding us to our principals and values and recreating infinite challenges because there aren't any easy solutions left after all.

I'd like to make videos, or even just audio clips, of me speaking poetry. This is one of them. I struggled with the format when typing it up; there's no comparison between reading this and hearing it. They are almost different poems, at least in my mind.

Why Do You Exist?

So, Why? What is your answer? What is your solution?
Is your reply nothing but a dream? If so, why? Why are you so settled in your reality?
Why can't you just admit your emotions?
Without an ever-changing world, how do you change?
Stagnant and stale in a pool of your supposed self worth,
Why do you consider yourself so much higher?
The hierarchy collapses in this imagined realm,
This is not the reality you always believed and followed.
I wear my clothes and brush my hair; we are similar in this,
But my clothes portray my self, my hair is dyed,
And you stand before me in the same style as all the others.
Where is your sense of self-worth when you are exactly like anyone else?
So where is your reality?
Is it so far away from the truth?
Sooner or later the throne you sit on will be split in half, and then
Where will you go for oblivion?
It is too late for you to hold me in friendship,
Too late for you to repent and regret your dystopian dreams,
But I hope, for the sake of truth,
That your reality becomes something that has an answer
When you finally ask it, "Why?"

Slight Changes to a Rhythm

Oh, the slight changes,
The slight differences,
The destructive force of belief
and the slight realizations it releases,
The catastrophic design of the buildings
meant to fall on our heads at a shift in our minds
These changes, these shifts, these beliefs
Diminutive in upholding our lives,
Though they are deceitful, deplorable, dreadful,
I love these small, slight changes
Nobody notices them by you and I, but,
these differences make up our world,
And our world is the most colourful of them all.

Sick

Sick! Sick! Society is sick. The cities are sick! The countries are sick! You and I are sick! Is there no innocence any more? Is nothing untouchable, untouched by our disgustingly human ways? No, all has been infected by our humanly disease. Sick! We are all sick, and there are no cures for our madness. We walk through these streets, freely giving away our arms and legs and lungs to a thankless formation of walls and corners, full of deceit and dehumanizing, creating plagued rats from the souls we sold to ensure our material wealth. For what can we have but material possessions in this age? 'Tis not the age of technology, but the age of money, of currency, of deplorable faces and icons on billboards, put there by more currency than you can ever hope to hold at once. This society possessed  clothing, money, food, possessions, is possessed by itself, vanity clouding its judgement, recalling a formerly desired time with all of its technological advances, and finally we're here. We're here, and now what do we want? Always more. The novelty wore off, the wonder having run out so many years ago, when the concept was first imagined. Who wants to live now? In a time and place full of death, poverty, famine, war, and delirious luxury, ignorance and depression, recession and dependence, independence and disgust.
Who really wants to live here anymore?

Walls

I am stuck in here, inside my body. My feet move in patterns I never taught them, my mouth says things I do not approve of. My eyes lie to their comarades, my body betrays my mind. I am trapped inside it all, watching as if from behind a glass wall, seeing myself change into someone I do not want to be. You sit in front of me, laughing at my words, words that are not mine, but pale regurgitations of ideas and phrases picked up from a variety of sources and sewn together in my ripped and tattered quilt of speech. These words are not as clever as they all see them to be. Instead, I have just learned them from others, from those I consider smarter and wittier than I could ever dream of being. My, what a hypocrite I am, even about hypocrisy. If only I could really be as talented, creative, as admired as the people I admire. I speak of being unique and scornful, but all I ever wanted was to fit in, wasn't it?
I am stuck here, not out there as you surely are, but in here, behind wall after wall, there is a part of me who cannot reach the door, who cannot walk out of the cage and state herself. The one who has marched to the front to publicise all my secrets and fears, she is not me. The mind that forms my thoughts, pronounces my words, states my ideas is not my mind. It is the mind that I watch while curled up, silent and still, in a recessing cobweb-filled corner of that other mind, protected by the one-way glass that allows me to see every mistake, but for no-one to see me.

The man in front of me adores the qualities he sees in my mind. He loves the unique, condescending thoughts I portray to everyone, the critical, judgemental, hateful way my eyes see the world around me. He loves the colours I see, though, and he can see through all the bricks in front of my glass wall. He envies those colours, and through his appreciation he sees past my negativity to what is behind that wall.
"No!" I tell him as he tries to coax me out of the puddle my mind has become. He offers me something new, and understanding, something that noone else has been able to offer me. He says he loves me. He says he adores me. He accepts all the things I do, and he says he understands. He gives and he gives and he gives to me all of which he is capable of giving; he gives me all of himself, and thinks that he recieves all of me in return. I don't know if he does, though. What if there is a part of me, stuck behind a wall of ash behind the walls of brick and glass, that he cannot reach?

Meaningless Confusion

Enough of this meaningless content!
These verses written on a whim
Without review, in desperation,
These poems written about nothing,
About confusion
But with confusion
So that there is no hope of finding emotion through the emotion of confusion.
These meaningless, random words
Shame these pages, burn the eyes
Of the people who brave the fluttering, insubstatial leaves
Of rhymes with half-rhythms.
Enough of saying nothing but that cursed confusion!
Wasting words precious as water in a desert
On trees that will not bear fruit, now or ever
Wasting them on the confusion in my mind
Trying to express inexpliquable terror
Trying to express the depression in my chest
Trying to express the desperation in my heart
Trying to express the inequality of my verses
All to people who see for enjoyment
Who are of no mind to sort out the dark
The overlay of despair I recall
When I recall the poetry it created.
Enough!
No more can I stand
No more can I see
For the confusion
The accursed confusion,
The accursed confusion leaving everything unresolved
Everything unresolved in everything.