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
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.
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
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.
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