The Human Condition of Sorts: As Told Through Poetry and Written Word
Poetry & Ramblings
I’m so gentle, I leave you to drink at the watering hole.
I am made of volatile materials and wonder if it will incapacitate you to take some of me.
What rubies have you pilfered before mine resided inside, and how pure were they?
Was their blood blackened from lack of oxygen and light?
How sweet was their life?
I’d ask a favor, to drink me entirely dry, but you leave before you’re even satiated.
I’ve been unfurled a few thousand times,
and I know just how unattractive my spine must appear snapped and folded in such an inhuman manner. I am the same tenderness as in the womb, encapsulated in a life separate of mine. Both lost and nestled in some known spot, buried down deep with hums of my existence occasionally escaping as bubbles to the surface, so you are aware I’m still here.
“I’m still here“, I leak out and up to the very top.
As if I wasn’t aware of just my slight weight, but a grain amongst grains with a baseless faith in some dividing line.
I toe it and grow nauseous at the homogenous
scent of being a human alongside humans.
Flesh and doubt create a pungent concoction when fused with blood.
And I think another could set her eyes deep and shave her skin down to challenge my vulnerability, and suddenly she’s me.
And you love me
love her
love me.
What if I said I couldn’t anymore? If my stalky Reeds that swore a kind of forever snapped in some terrible tragedy and you’re the two of us standing, oblivious to my fall? At what point does the throbbing of the wound overwhelm the heart until a collapse and shut down?
I’ve required you as water, food and air and you couldn’t be seen, no matter how you willed it. And what if resentment grew as dandelions in those cracks of abandon and they’re much too vital to the entirety of the system to remove; like brain tumor too entwined in the important bits to touch?
You know of mercy. You condemn purposeful suffering. I’m suffering. I’m suffering for the years I haven’t been able to live inside of you and you inside of me, not merely beneath the stucco ceilings of man-made matter and within the confines of the gravity from our own 4-walled world.
“This is so very rare”, we reassure each other, and we believe it with the blind allegiance of a religion. Even upon a final departure, it’s a doctrine so tightly tangled with my tendons and spine, and every day factual assertions, that I’d carry it to the beginnings of forever. But what if we had begun with a stubborn disposition of brevity? Do we suffer together and apart or would true suffering only surface in a total absence?
Does the starving man that smells an apple pie bubbling in the stove before death suffer more than the starving man that smells nothing?
The Human Condition of Sorts: As Told Through Poetry and Written Word 