5230

A shy boi
hair in their vision
posture hunched
though it doesn’t make
them any shorter.
The only thing duller than
their hair and their skin
are the tears on their face
dry and flaking off with
a rigorous rubbing of the eyes
(they never see me cry
so they don’t think I do.
When I break down
it’s a long time coming
and a complete surprise.)

At thirty they feel more
like a child than at twenty.
Strange, how they experience aging
backwards
while going through it
forewards
while wishing it was just
upwards
or downwards
or sidewards
or nowheres.
(I wish time were like
a videogame.
Moments saved precipitating events
or just a bathroom break.
Forgotten when not needed.
Overwritten.
Revisited to see how
the characters fare.)

If they were honest they
wouldn’t know how to explain
it, the pain and the suffering
of being alone or different
by choice and by indifference
by the pressures to conform
against the urges to rebel against
the things that make
it worth it.
(How can I raise myself
when I understand me
as low?
When I raise up others
do I sink?
Can I stop it?
Do I want to?
Could I reverse it?)

They look, downcast, in
the general direction of heaven
for a moment sure it’s
a trick of the curtain of hair
but it’s not there anymore
maybe it never was.
Lovers as fanciful illusions
dancing through memories
CGI fairytales added in editing
in delusion. If they understood
themself as a delusion
would it make them
any less real?
(Would I love myself
if it wasn’t me? Could I
give my heart to me
if I weren’t taking it in return?
Am I the wall or is it me;
if it were someone else would I
know how to feel?)

Less reconciled and more
unnerved.
They tuck into the covers murmuring
אהבב וחמלה וחוכמה ואהבב וחמלה וחוכמה ואהבב וחמלה
וחוכמה
(Wisdom is perceived by others
and rarely by the self;
otherwise, it isn’t truly
wise
it’s simply something
else.)

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About Michael Robinson

An eclectic person living in a world rife with binaries, opposition, anger and pain and trying to find the spectra, love, happiness and catharsis within.
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Poetry, XX30. Bookmark the permalink.

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