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.

Details

I love the details
The dents in the snow
Where the water dripped,
The gold rings in your eyes,
The snowflakes,
The branches,
The cracks.
I love the details,
The little things
No one notices,
But I do.
And you do.
We can see
The little details.
We can see.
We can see each other.
We can see our world.
We can observe,
We can watch,
We can find the details.

Colourless

Food has stopped tasting good.
Sleep has stopped feeling restful.
Music has stopped being appreciable.
Pain has stopped hurting.
Joy has stopped being enjoyable.
The time passes by unnoticed.
The people pass by unnoticed.
My head hurts.
My eyes hurt.
My mind hurts.
My ears hurt.
My mouth hurts.
Everything has become nothing to me.
The colour has faded away.
And I am colourless.
Colourless once again.
The rainbows have turned to black and grey.

Part of A Rainbow

Oh, the Rainbows,
"My head is all silent 'till you come and scream in it,"

The colours, the colours,
Burning into my eyes,
Engraved deep in my mind,
The combinations of the spectrum
So deeply inspiring
That it has finally become
Part of me.

I am a Rainbow. I am Rainbow.
Deny me not.

Your Paper

The leaves tumble down the path.
Whoosh, whoosh, they whisper.

The raindrops drip from the puffy clouds.
Drip, drip, they murmur.

The acorns fall from water-laden trees.
Plick, plock, they giggle.

The paper crumples as your fist tightens around it.
Crinkle, crackle, it groans.

The paper bounces down the path.
Tchak, tchak,
Now you're free.