Lost in one thought while moving on to the next a constant battle
It’s Monday - again - every time I look around,
it seems like it’s Monday again.
Weekdays I run on snark and caffeine.
If I seem preoccupied..
I’m not ignoring you, I’m buffering
My playlists soothe and understand me
I’m not ignoring you, I’m reorganizing a playlist.
My mood is linked to Wi-Fi strength.
I’m not ignoring you, I’m doom scrolling.
On weekends, we put the ‘pro’ in procrastination
we take the celibacy out of celebration
and work on our romantic cardio
Sometimes you gotta pop-out and show your alignment
I’m not ignoring you, I just don’t want to pull a bird-finger muscle
.
.
A song for this:
The Politics of Dancing (12" Extended Mix) by Re-Flex
Without Him by Triste Janero
Dive deep into my thoughts
And tell me what you’ll unravel.
Have you lost your way in your search
Or got tangled in a tight web?
“The mess is my fault, I know,
I’ve been there.”
You see, the seeds that I’ve sowed,
Oh, how they have sprawled - relentlessly.
Beyond the control of mind,
From where they were conceived.
“To be lost in in your own thoughts,
Is to be absorbed in preoccupation.”
The venomously preoccupied,
They know what they're doing.
Nor do they weep, or sit down for their pudding.
Not one bird's chirp, a call from the neighbour;
Nor a simple request or an ask for a favour
Can pull this man's mind out of its infereal labour.
For what I stated at the start isn't entirely true.
That's how the world works, I meant that, too.
The venomously preoccupied can't help it that way.
They try not to be, to free up their day.
Can't help it that way when they push you away,
Tell you they're busy so you can't see the decay.
What I need to tell you about the preoccupied
Is that the venom isn't permanent, please let it lay.
He just needs you to pretend that it's all okay.
I think I get it:
You want me to swallow your acidic avalanche.
Those billion frantic snow globes
of brilliant-clownish confusion.
You want me to rebuild your burned-out shrines.
Atop broken blue glacial climbs.
Straddle boulders of swaybacked hope and jagged stones of regret.
You wish me to inhale the barbs of shadows
and the velocity of your death.
You want me to embrace the fire of your ID.
With paper arms and gasoline fingertips,
lasso your run-away mind.
Make a bouquet of roses from a wall of
rock and ice.
I know you'll get this:
I can't embrace your avalanche,
while I'm digging out from beneath mine.
Solitary writer
My instruments here before me
In my hands
For my mind to roam
Wandering far from home
On a trip waiting to be lost
Thinking to exhaust
Mystery and delight
Complied and adrift
Floating on this desk
In a imaginative spell
Then in front of my eyes, a marriage of paper and pen
Brought fourth in the den
A story
Jumped out from a blurry
Knows no end
When intrigue sparks a rouse
Written in my prose
Clear the pile
And began again,
Obsessing
This driven race
Put fourth a mistake than erase
Oh the toils of the solitary writer
Making me the lonely fighter
I am preoccupied with corridors,
Sci-fi canyons with automatic doors,
Leading to spaces of silence
Wherein the one who bore me lies.
The TV fills a visual frame,
Yet the sound is never on,
24 hrs a day, mute dramas and
Bulletins lip synch to nothing,
Whilst, like a profane flag
The graphic observation chart
Hangs statically at the foot of the bed.
Sometimes I follow the lines,
Blue, yellow and red.
Sometimes they lead to solid walls.
The red one, though, umbilicus
Always leads back to something of her.
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