pyrhhus

A poem...ish:

Trespasser


Not a poet am I.

I know I know this
is a poem.
It has the form and
function, but lacks the true character.
That certain essence of
truth or beauty or art or life
you will not find here.

This is a complaint, diatribe of
a mad man caught twixt a
rock and a hard mind.
A mind that seems to keep
company with facts only, analyses
and dissertations the sole
bedfellows. Yet thriving on
anguish, pain, defeat, failure, taking
its only fuel from frustration;
melancholy were it not for the smoldering dragon's fire of rage redoubling against my skull -
the inner passions that scream
out at nights like the one
too long line in bad poetry.

The envy is there too, the
ruminations and jealousies over
those for whom expression is
second skin. Let go they
say, stop worrying, but it
is not they who do not know how
to wear themselves; it is
not they who can't just be
yourself because yourself
is woefully inadequate, unfit
for the human world of feelings
and emotions, never at ease.

But do not mistake, I do
not ask for your sympathy, do
not want your kind words, do
not desire your warm smiles, do
not seek the bosom of embrace. This
misery brooks no company. It is
easier to sulk and brood. Here
I will stay. Be gone.