Observing
It's hard
I look around now
Everything's falling into place.
Everyone's finding their life.
They have love, they have work, they have fun.
I have no love. I have no work.
Am I even certain what is fun to me?
couples in love
couples in eyes
staring, each other. nothing beyond that face.
In the dark I fade softly. I disperse, molecules seperate
individual atoms decide the whole isn't worth supporting.
My hands, I look at them and I see nothing.
Translucence in the classroom.
I burn myself for no reason-- apparent to others
I burn myself for a reason-- apparent to myself
Am I even really here? I must find out.
The experiment is concluded.
flammable shavings of combustible metal
the Smell disturbs me.
it Smells of hair and flesh melting.
the Image is frightening. Skin melting and withering.
A dying flower red and bright.
It peels backwards, away from the light, a nocturnal bud?
Attracted to darkness, instead of the light?
I suppose this is possible.
I see, and I smell, but... but...
I do not feel?
I do not feel.
I feel no pain, no sharpness, intensity...
There is nothing happening, it simply isn't real. I may see the image, I may smell that smell, but...
It mustn't really exist.
because I don't feel it.
Or maybe I am numb?
I look around and I look at couples.
I look at myself and I look inside.
My heart isn't there. Or so it seems.
Do I love? Do I cherish? Or do I merely imitate?
I can sit in a corner, darkened,
shadow, and disappear.
I can sit in a classroom, in the middle of the action,
silent, and disappear.
Incredible. But nothing.
Why am I lonely in a crowd?
Why am I more alone now than ever before?
Everyone I know has the other.
What do I have, myself?
I am afraid...
afraid...
that I have frightened away the people I cared about.
My friends turned their backs.
I have new friends?
But they will turn their backs as well.
They must face life.
I must face myself.
I grew up in a full household.
But I grew up alone.
I grew up wanting to be the center of attention
But I grew up wanting to be forgotten.
Contradictory messages says the outsider looking in at me.
But they aren't, says the outsider looking back at you.
Nothing resolved.
Back to New Poetry.
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