Poetry / Don't Ask Me What I Mean

Don’t ask me what I mean,
just listen once more,
and feel what I so desperately do,
and as I say
what I have to say
try to listen with an open ear.

Here I stand
whether it be amongst the pulse of a roaring crowd,
or in a dark corner only I know exists,
what plagues my conscious,
be only the visage of someone standing before me now.
Listening to my words and asking
what it is I’m trying to say.

And how can such demon,
reality halting fiend
latch onto the inner holdings of my poor plagued mind,
and yet remain standing here
with a guileless expression
that switches my heartbeat to tempo: tango.
And makes me so foolish,
to momentarily believe
maybe heaven isn’t so far as everyone fears.

But no,
I am no fool to be played by God’s marionette strings,
You!
oh mirage of my ailing psyche,
are as tangible as the wisps of dreams
that keep humanity faithful.

Yet if that be so,
why is it,
when your soft
palm do touch mine
an electricity,
one to rival Thor’s own,
extends from flesh to blood
and submerges my body and soul
in a drunken haze,
surrounded in unease.

No,
you are miraculously real,
an ethereal being fortuitously placed
in our average world,
to taunt and torment
those of us who shall remain
average
until the day we trip over
our own yearning heartstrings
and fall down cold.

I am such fool
unlucky enough to be graced
by your divine precence
to forever crave for your affection,
no doubt hidden until
a worthy being steps forth
to claim what is rightfully his
something that is never to be
and never was
mine.

So what I suppose it is I’m trying to say
something you refuse to grasp,
is that you,
oh you,
look quite nice today.

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