I am a poet but the world knows that i am bad at conversation,
I AM A POET AND THE WORLD KNOWS THAT I AM BAD AT CONVERSATION,
There are complications in my brain that make the normal feel inane
And inside the mind of this wide-eyed
Mess of a fucking human being
A swirl of nervous energy
That comes rushing out whenever i try to open my mouth,
This thinly drawn line on my face,
Can make space and time feel irrelevant
With the infinite galaxies of words that have passed,
But space and time can be lonely,
Because not everyone has developed warp speed
Being able to deliver words from tongue to mouth
Doesn't guarantee they'll make their destination,
Doesn't mean that the placement
Of those words will mean you'll understand them
Because i could use my words to lick the whorls on your hand and not even know you,
I could trace your name upon the endless infinite void of friendship
And you would never hold me,
I am a poet and the world knows that i am bad at conversation
And i could scream a consecration upon the words with which i,
But pre scripted conversations with spirits and gods and demons is harder work than you could imagine,
When it could be just a molehill
But climb i do and follow you must
Because to understand my train of thought,
You've got to leap off the cliff
Down which i fall on a daily basis,
And you might clip your wings
And the world of swirling sights, sounds, smells, emotions and,
Fucking human experiences
Is the sour liquid in which i take my shower,
Is the bitter water that I've learnt to drink,
Is the salty tear that i don't wipe away because,
I'll cry again in a minute.
And you can climb and you can dive
But its probably not worth it,
probably not worth the hurt,
Probably not worth the devastating silence that this merry-go-round of life can bring.
But would you ever notice?
Would you ever understand the bloated,
Between my brain and my body?
Hiding in a place that my emotions have always been,
Locked in time i spent alone
Locked in awkward applause for doing things that never felt at home
This raincoat of thin white lines
Its there but you'd never see it,
Coz I wrote a poem about pissing my pants and
even then no-one tried to feel it,
No-one even tried to believe it,
No-one even dared to breathe the words
That might imply that we are far more complex than your fucked up understanding of what the word “functioning” actually means.
And yeah every day the yellow stain becomes more ingrained
And the growing pains of life become more chained
And now matter how old I get,
It’ll always be hard to understand the sensation on the sole
And these feet were made for walking,
But apparently talking and walking
are things that come easily to most people,
And so I can neither talk the talk nor walk the walk,
But let’s just chalk this up to experience
Because at 27 I’ve still got a long way to go
and still got a lot of things to,
I’m 27 and I find even the most basic things like conversation difficult,
This isn’t anything to do with experience,
So fuck off with your condescending crap
About how I don’t “look disabled”,
Or about how serious you were when you said that “trying harder” enabled
Your best mates, 3rd cousins, grandmas, dog,
to overcome having a wheel instead of a back leg
I’ve been trying harder all my life and so far
GCSE’s, A-Levels, a degree,
And some fucking low self esteem
Which means your understanding is so far
That I can say without sarcastic wit or any ounce of insincerity,
TRYING HARD DOESN’T GET YOU ANYWHERE
When your starting line is
Those you call your peers,
When the line in times continuum
Is distorted and continuing to run is a pointless effort in running out of breath,
When the death of your self-respect happens again and again on a daily basis,
When the world won’t let you catch up and sit still in stasis,
When every fucking word that lands in your ears is derived from apophasis.
I am a poet and the world doesn’t seem to know that i am bad at conversation.
Why did i decide to become a sodding poet?!