Rain shards slap down ruthlessly at will
Concealing the tears that flow down skin bare
Lightening may strike down sudden upon my head
But the pain would be a caress in compare
Stuck in the whirlwind of words, listless and lost
The bustle of the world surely pales in time
We distract ourselves so desperately so
From the questions that we really need to know
If we sat and observed, in truth, you'd see
We've nothing to show for, nothing but an emotional sea
Don't be mistaken, the tears aren't just sad
Don't be naive, the pain isn't just my own
There is but one difference, you and me
I've thought and pondered and sulked a while
Whilst you rot blissful in the castle of your own
Don't you see you've accomplished zilch?
Look again, your trophies are but rust
Oh but then, there were just phantoms on withering wood
Mere shiny cups and plates, if you must
Delusions and hallucinations decorate your world
Fables and misconceptions entertain you so
Even if you rouse, your time has passed
The waves have rolled, your breath has halt.
2 comments:
The last time I felt this strongly about what you're writing about was when I was reading DFW's notes, revealing his enduring, never-ending struggle to try and get to the near-impossible goals he had set for himself, while trying to keep his feet on the ground and get through the rigmarole of day-to-day life involving routine tasks like meeting and greeting people, especially when every such interaction was laced with multiple layers of charade.
http://www.theawl.com/2011/04/inside-david-foster-wallaces-private-self-help-library
It's probably a harsher lens with which to look at the world, but the hope of a brighter, clearer view should usually be sufficient to keep the wheels in motion. Usually.
At last the secret is out,as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire,
Still waters run deep,my dear,there's never smoke without fire.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir,behind the ghost in the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue,the lightning strikes and the cry,
There is always another story,there is more than meets the eye.
For the clear voices suddenly singing,high up in the convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes,the sporting prints in the hall,
The talks in summer,the handshake,the lean,the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret,a private reason for this.
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