The Writer, Reading Back.

I can see past the end of my nose,

your nose begins proud.

Spuriously defining every thing to be everything at once,

At once each a thing to be every of.

Indefinate Jive.

Non committal,

Vague un doings of all.

Heart felt and not ungratefully received,

you’re beautiful and all.

I mean it.

Think without forgetting to exist.

Feining stupidity complicatedly,


Is that noble?

Is it endearing for either of us to be uncommunicable.

“I’m confused”

So Introverted you can see a light at the end you talk out of.

You’re a gentleman.

Lets not be polite,

Take it.

Im harsh and cold and undeserving arnt i?

Face to face I get claustrophobic.

Bitter bad apple.

Spiteful little campfire.

Giving nothing back.

Knowing silence well.

Limp tongued when the beans spill.

Dry eyed though split sore.

I’m just like you,

But quiet with it.

In Transience Love goes:

Fascination – irritation,

eventually accustomed

to the point of sentiment and

nostalgia. Now what?


I don’t believe that truly.

Cynicism , the real fault of character

is mine.

Love goes.

Still It could swing both ways,

Historicly standing strong,

Or ruined in anothers regrets,

Or Inevitably sensationalised,

Or at Peacemeal rest,

Or Remembering, Over grown,

Obscured treaties, lost adventures,

Or Glazing over in wait for deaths rescue.

When I finally find a wording to answer you

I cant bear the odds you’ll say “why”

I am just like you

But quiet with it.