Poem: Brick Wall

William_Blake_006

I feel like I’m beating my head

Against a brick wall; I feel like there is

An unbridgeable gulf that keeps me separate

From everyone else. Why can’t I escape this

Prison? Why can’t I leap over this abyss, and

Finally escape the tyranny of my loneliness?

Just for once, I wish I could hold you in my

Arms, and not have you melt-away, back

Into the night-time of my sadness. When

Will my Sun rise? When will the light dawn

On my crypt-bound love, that longs for a

Comrade, a partner? For goodness sake! –

I feel so much emotion! I must express it

Somewhere! Surely I can’t just keep writing

Poetry? To write my way out of death,

Constructing elaborate psycho-dramas, to

Hint at how I truly feel? At some point,

It must all come blurting out, like a

Rain-drop perched on the edge of a

Roof, that you know, any second,

Will Drop. I see your face, against a

Backdrop of space, and I can feel

Those explosive words forming on

My lips, like teardrops of precariousness.

This is the song of my impatience;

The Symphony of my Frustration.

The penultimate ravings of a

Too-sensitive madman, who is

Sick of having his heart so stiflingly

Hid. Oh, I know it is not your fault –

You did not ask for me to love you –

You did not beseech the heavens to

Send you someone, who might

Completely love and understand

You.

II.

But I did.

I have gotten down on my knees,

And chanted your name for hours –

I have prayed until my skull began to

Shrink, and the corridors became so

Narrow, that they could not admit a

Single thought, unless it was shaped

To your exact size.

III.

And so I despise myself. I despise

Myself for being unworthy of you;

For not having the beauty that could

Lure you into the trap of my heart.

But, I feel that I could be good enough;

That I could be worthy of you –

That I shouldn’t have to spend my

Nights under a blanket of fire, longing

For you to put me out.

I know that I am soldier of selflessness –

That I have chosen a life dedicated to

The service of others – but still, I

Want your love – for you to be

The fair maiden who asks this

Gentle knight what ails him,

 And what can you do

To help?

Mr. Blake had his Mrs. Blake –

His noble wife, who believed and loved

Him into his grave, and beyond.

But where is my Mrs. Tourettes?

How could I subject anyone to that?

In marrying me, you are marrying a

Mystery: a Russian Roulette of Identities.

And who has the capacity, for the

Emotional suicide, such a commitment,

Would inevitably incur? How can

I ask you to love something that

Refuses, by nature, to be defined?

This medley of archetypes – this buffet table

Of idiocy – this smorgasbord of the soul –

This melting pot of atrocities –

This tramp, this poet, this actor,

This songster, this satirist, this

Impostor, this shaman, this old

Man, this screaming infant? This

Riot of feeling – this mystification of

Good sense? How? How? How?

But, it is my own foolish fault:

I am too sensitive to your moods;

To the slightest change in your

Temperament. My insecurity is

As volatile as a rotting tree, that

Only needs the merest whisper of

Wind to knock it over. When the pain

Gets this intense, I briefly wonder, if I

Wouldn’t be happier if I didn’t love you

At all: but I cherish the pain – it

Is my proof – my validation of the times

I’ve spent with you. And I would rather

Be murdered by you, again and

Again, than never know you at

All. Every knife wound you inflict

Is so piercing, so unwitting, so

Malevolent – and I hate it –

I hate the pain – the ineluctable knowing

That, until I die, I will never be safe, that

You could crumble away from me at any moment.

And it kills me – it kills me

To know that any affection I might

Receive from you, will be so quickly

Choked by time. Why can’t I just trust,

Without distrusting everything, for once?

I need to tell you soon – to surrender to my

Feelings for you. I have to accept that I’m

Not my own man anymore, but have

Enslaved myself to your needs. I would

Do anything to keep you happy – to

Help you fulfil the necessaries of your

Dreams. Just, please, don’t cast me away –

Keep me near – you are my life-support

System – my sun – my oxygen – my

Liberty – my saturnine fixity.

IV.

But, it is no good – I can

Keep on writing like this, until

My fingers fall off, and my vocabulary

Is reduced to stubs – but, until I speak

To you, face to face, there can be no release;

The pressure will just keep on building,

Like an untaken shit, held in for too long,

That desperately needs to be crapped.

And, maybe, once I’ve finally

Taken my heart to the lavatory,

To flush itself out – maybe, just

Maybe, when all’s said and done,

I will finally recall the meaning of

‘Peace’

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