The Intimancy of My MInd

The intimacy of my mind

  

   October 2 2011

   I built a paradise for myself, in my mind where I only saw what I wanted to see. A disillusion so thick I began to think it was real. The two or three words that we exchange daily, or bi-daily, felt like 2000-3000 and I tricked myself into believing that you were weighing each words importance the same way as I. No matter how farfetched it seems now, I started to believe my thoughts—hopes and desires were starting to all meet. It was a mistake I thought I would be intelligent enough to avoid but unfortunately was not. Now I surely won’t be able to look you in the eye—speak—without thinking how far apart we are; me calculating each word’s measure, while you count the moments until you are free; me praying that the next minute will last the rest of my life, while you continue to check your watch.

   The worst part is I never found my voice, and now I never will find it—at least to speak to you. I came close once but while trying to perfect each and every word, making sure they all fall into place perfectly, you left and left me with a mouthful of nonsense, by myself. I don’t even know what I would want to say if I ever found my voice; I think I would start speaking and never stop because if I did then the moment would come when you looked back at me, your eyes opened wide and your half smile insincere. Your head would be tilted slightly to the right with a mix of pity and bashfulness, your words cocked to confirm the suspicion I tried to suppress. And your speech would be short, much shorter than mine, but more to the point. Yes, I have run the moment through my head a thousand times—I even dream it night after night but even there the ending is not a happy one.

   There are two types of people in this world, I am the first and you are the second. Simply, I am hardwired to search for love and so I fall too quickly and too hard. I think about it all the time, the emptiness the thought seems to bring. And each time I think that the perfect script has been written I find that I am back to square one. In my head I picture Romeo and Juliet, the greatest love story ever written—perhaps it would be more accurate if Juliet was just in it for the thrill and Romeo wasn’t all that great anyway.

   I pictured some type of climax beyond just a simple realization, that you are not the person that I pictured and love stories don’t truly exist. The world brings people together and tears them apart, no reason in its randomness. Our vague existence in each other’s lives is temporary and for no other reason than chance. I’m sure we will go our own wayward ways and never meet again, soon enough. Perhaps if you weren’t so beautiful—pretty—exuberant I wouldn’t mind so much and my insanity would feel less sane. But unfortunately, things are the way they are, no better or worse.

    Let’s go back to being bare acquaintances, borderline strangers that only acknowledge each other’s presence in the most unusual of circumstances. Then I can stop thinking about each moment that I took as a tiny victory and see them for what they really are, wasted moments where I tricked myself into thinking there was even a shred of hope. They were little moments, fleeting at best, lasting only a few seconds to a few minutes but after I ran them through my head near a million times they started to add up. It’s funny how now they all start to blend together but at the time each one seemed like the fulcrum point between reality and dreams.

   I can’t help but wonder how long these words will stay relevant or if they will even mean anything by morning but right now they are all that I have. And I have to ask myself why I am even writing at this moment, as if a manuscript written to myself will make you fall in love with me. At the very least perhaps it’s a plea for pity. Maybe it’s a continuation of my deeply woven disillusion, as if these very words are some continuation of a story that never existed. Even by the very slightest of slight chances you ever manage to read these words you will certainly never make it this far and more than certainly assume that they are about somebody else—for that’s the thing about being born without a voice, I have no way of communicating through rational methods or anything above a simple guessing game. 

   I must have lost my mind somewhere along the way, being stuck in one place for so long with no reason to believe. But now, as I try to vanquish the thoughts from my mind all I can think of are the moments you shared when I wasn’t around. But I don’t want to know of those for with my limited knowledge and intelligence my cerebral cortex is filled with all the information I can handle.

   I’m left with nothing but a story I wrote with thoughts and wishful thinking. I would bang my head against the wall but I fear that might bring about clarity. For my simple mind and lack of a tongue seems to always get me in trouble, makes me want to bang my head against the wall. If I only knew how to speak then perhaps everything would be better—but knowing me I would only make it worst.

   I feel like I am having an argument with myself, trying to win myself over and sway myself into seeing how incredibly arrogant and disillusioned I have been but… But… But… There doesn’t even seem to be a thought I can write to fit that sentence. Surely I have lost my mind over nothing, for life in all respects is no different than it was yesterday but today there is no hope, daily routines that are just that, nothing more—it isn’t all leading to some greater world with a happily ever after, it’s just all leading to the next day, and the next, and the next, and the next until before I know it I will have wasted every moment, every moment wasted on the disillusions that were once the image of you.

       DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com 

I'm Sorry (Sorry for Everything)

I'm sorry, more sorry then you'll ever know.
I'm sorry for everything,  I hope you know how sincere I am.
When I breathe, guilt punches me in the stomach, it cripples me.
Often, I lie on my back broken, I stare at the ceiling
and think of all the wrong I've caused—it breaks me.
My hands are scarred with the guilt I can't share with you,
I want you to know why I am the way I am—I've never really told you.
I'm not as neophobic as you may think.  Obsessive? Compulsive?  Of course,
but I'm not afraid of change.  As you can tell, I've always been different,
and right there, that's the start of my demise—my self-disdain.
I don't know how to talk to you; I've never learned.  I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for the way I talk and the way I present myself.
Guilt keeps me awake at night, it lets tears fall down my face—my cheeks;
I want you to know I'm aware of how wrong I am. I'm metacognitive
when I am around you.  It lets me be silent, even when I don't want to be.
I'm sorry for the way I act, it's not who I am; it's a mask.
It keeps you from getting to know me—I guess there's nothing wrong with that
but I wish you knew me.  My guilt controls me, I want to leave you be.
You're running through my mind and I don't know how to forget that.
You would think sleep would bring the best of me—yet—I always dream.
Those are the worst moments, the ones where I'm asleep.
In my dreams, I know how to talk to you—then I awake—without you.
I arise from my bed confused, and with reality twisted.  I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I dream—the guilt is eating away at me.
I'm sorry for everything,  I hope you know how sincere I am.
I'm sorry, more sorry then you'll ever know.
I want you to take my words to heart—know how sincere I am.

My Final Confession

From now until you die, don't believe a word I say;
everything I tell you is a lie, and it's ridiculous.
I can't tell you anything; it kills me in every way.
To you, I want to whisper every thought that crosses my mind
but I know you don't care what goes on in my simple mind.
     
I'll pretend you care what I think; and to myself I'll lie;
you've never cared for me and you tell me that everyday.
Some part of me keeps hoping that you lie (the way that I lie),
after all, I'm fluent in pseudo-truth.  What am I saying?
You make me ramble and sound broken.  What am I saying?

I want to tell the truth but instead I spit out regret;
I hide my trails well; I make sure you never know where I am.
I've done things that don't make me proud but I won't forget them;
why would I want to forget them?  To forget is to regress.
My stories no longer fit together; I must confess.

My stories are simple memories; moments inhuman.
If it takes innocence to show who I am, then naïve I'll be.
I want you to know where I've been, see that I'm just a man;
look to me and watch me bleed,  I need you to see me broken;
I can't look at my reflection- I feel I've misspoken.

I think of what's missing; it's suffocating- I concede.
I want you to see me broken; crying in an empty room-
you'll see how human I am, I'm not a machine, I bleed.
It's ridiculous, what I think; the disillusions I live.
You deserve to see me broken; see how I really live.

I want you to know who I am; ask me and we'll reminisce.
If I'm lying, I'm sorry, but there's good in me; it exists.

          DannYetman

http://www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/

My Existence

I need you to hate, so much it breaks me;

tear me down, show me true apathy-

make me speechless, that's what I truly want.

Teach me how to forget, it's foreign to me;

show me how to be a killer, it's what I truly am.

Break me, it's all I need; it's all I want from you.

I'm a hopeless cause; tell it to me;

tell me my words are endless; each one senseless,

I need to hear it from you; all I do is lie.

Become a philosopher; my existence? Show it to me.

With innuendos, give me hope and belief,

remember my words for the rest of your life.

When I look to you, remember me apathy,

remember who I am, I'll miss you

          DannYetman

http://www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/

Where the Blackbirds Cry

There's an old man fishing down at the creek;

everyday he fishes his heart out.

He waits everyday at the creek for a bite,

never does he complain; not once has he ever flinched.

He sits there, waiting for the fish to bite;

the rain falls hard upon that man.

As the years go by, he never moves an inch;

he was a child, now he's a broken man.

The fish never bite, his eyes start to fade;

over the years his back becomes haunched.

No longer is he known as the fisherman,

years of torment have left his mind completely wrecked;

he is referred to as a broken man;

he bleeds from black and weathered hands.

As a fisherman he commanded respect,

now an old man holds pity by the hand.

There was rain when he left his fishing spot;

he walked that day, straight into the fog.

Nobody saw his face on that rainy night;

he walked alone, just as as he had for his whole life;

his footsteps were silent, leaving the woods in fright.

Only the blackbirds heard him cry,

their melancholy songs caused the end of his life;

the blackbirds alone saw his mud stained eyes.

His yellow coat sits in the mud today.

Today it's black, from years in the mud.

Not even the blackbirds remember his face,

generations have taken him from memory.

Grass dances around his favorite place,

where alder trees begin to grow.  

No one cries for him, they have no memory;

not even the blackbirds give him sorrow.

        DannYetman

http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/ 

I Want to Dance With You

Come and read my mind,

all the words are for you;

I said all the words are just for you.

Come tell me that you hate me,

and I'll show you who I really am.

I wish we could smile everyday,

everyday just me and you.

I'd say my words are for you;

I would mean it, always mean it,

and you'd want to dance with me.

Come and take my hand,

I won't say goodbye to you;

I just want to say hello to you.

Come tell me that you hate me,

and I'll tell you there's no one home.

So you say you know her name,

but she's faceless just like you;

every word is just for you,

I mean it, I always mean it,

come and dance with me.

         DannYetman 
http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/

The Faces Fade

The faces come, and the faces fade,

the faces come and so I begin to hate.

The days have all come to pass,

but sill memory sits upon my chest.

My heart beat stutters,

against the weight upon my chest.

Everyday comes to waste,

everyday I've come to hate,

Time tells me I can never regress,

time shows me things

I can never forget.

     DannYetman
http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/ 

The First Time We Met

She lives her life,

and the world hates her.

She lives her life,

and the world beats her.

Their words break her bones.

Their laughter sends her crying.

Her innocence sickens them,

her passion repulses them.

She hears them say

how they hate her,

but still she smiles.

She hears them say

she'd be better off dead,

but still she tries to smile.

She watches them destroy her,

but still she prays for a savior.

                      DannYetman

           http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/ 

Autumn

The raindrops come to feel your cheek,

like the autumn dawn feels the trees.

He whispers to the deceased he sees,

words mangled to his critique.

To his eyes you begin to sneak,

consciousness, oh so bleak. You see

the raindrops come to feel your cheek,

like the autumn dawn feels the trees.

Each syllable to caress your cheek,

he whispers now, for you he sees;

to his back, the autumn breeze.

The raindrops come to seem unique;

the raindrops come to feel your cheek.

                                   DannYetman 

http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/

The Philospher

Recollection the prophet seeks,

To spill his mind and,

Live his speech.

Upon his walls the writing glows,

A life to save,

Oh this he knows.

In his mind he knows what's right,

To live in vain,

And forget to fight.

Selfless beyond what is known,

He dies himself,

And leaves the throne.

Memories flying without a mind

And now he's dead,

To march the line.

Recollection the prophet seeked,

But instead he died,

With words to teach.

            DannYetman

 http://yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com/ 

Failing Still

From first to last you were always there.

When the whole world was smiling

You laughed at their sinful stories,

And so too came the words;

When the world was jaded,

You said you were jaded too.

When we were all failing,

You said you were failing too.

                     DannYetman