Posts Tagged ‘friendship’

In this Tedium where Time

grayly spans without end,

what one truly needs

is the Smiling face of a Friend.

Caught between lovers,

cat fights, heartbreak.

Caught in that grey area

where clarity comes

naturally, and wisdom flows

out like ink from a pen.

And it shifts, revolves.

The position is temporary.

Every friend is a middle man,

listening to stories- and nodding,

giving advice- not knowing

what is the wholly right thing to say,

opening and reading the pages

of their companion’s autobiography.

At the same time,

opening mouths wide

to flash white teeth in ecstasy,

cradling themselves

in the corner of a room

while listening to sad music,


writing their own stories.

Friends or Pirates–

you can’t be both.

They want– I want…

if they could let me be happy,

be respected for one day.

I am not a toy to be passed

from dirty hands of one child

to the next. I’ll rest here,

where I want. Until the day

comes when they’ll learn

by truth bitterly seasoned,

and unto them served.

I wish there was a place I belonged.

Where I could escape the screams,

escape the judgement

of eyes widen and staring,

or, thin as worms, glaring.

I wish there was a place I belonged

for even among friends

everything I say is counted against me

with angry exclamations,

or approved with subtle laughter–

not the roaring guffaws

they make after each other’s comments.

I wish there was a place

where I could listen to music that moves,

rustles the long grass blades of my mind,

not this mindless drivel

driving its guitar riffs against gravel vocals.

I wish there was a place where I had friends

who wished to go where I wished to go.


I feel the wind on my face,

it caresses, tugs my clothes

and pulls me toward the heart of the forest

near the hills behind my home.

I’m alone.

The sun beats overhead.

For now, I’m where I belong.

Here, in this quiet focus of the natural, blue, green,

and yellow world. It speaks in whispers.

I belong here.


If you could lift these wounds,

peel them off like children’s stickers;

if you could house my faint heart

drumming under your arms,

my face pressed against the maternal warmth

of your chest.

if you could see me;

infantile, sobbing over scarlet cuts and scrapes,

the opening of my innocent skin– this Earth’s first incision.

My darling, my friend,

of whom I know so much and still

so little,

would you be there?

Would the hole in your chest contract,

and your starry-eyed glitter of dreams

recede into your pupils

so you could wholly see the crimson blood of reality?

My darling, my friend,

would you extract yourself

from your fragrant life of new suitors

just so you could cup the softness of my temples

and cool the agitated flare that beat, beat, beat

such a racket against my skull?

If you could take an excursion

from the humdrum sidewalks

and lost-luster neon so we could venture forth

into the dark and endless green, the contained infinity of the natural,

would you?

My dear dear friend, would you?

We are at an impasse.

You live in your world,

revolving in a changing stream of

faces and friends;

I live in my

dull cement universe

of calculus and formation of meaningless words.

In these places we remain–


Connection eclipsed

by a letter written in hasty anger

and a life controlled,

pressed under the thumb

of a giantess.

Is this where we part?

In our worlds where happiness

is such an odd thing.

Seemingly unattainable, yet

present, like a shining trophy.

And this is where we’re left.

Not saying a word to each other

and still reaching,

reaching for that trophy

while trying to avoid

the junction of our fingers.

What is it like to be the odd man out? To find that you and your friends do not share the same interests? Sure, you’ve been friends for a long time, but people change, or at least their interests change. Did the great poets of the past years understand this realm of thought? Didn’t writers have the best relationships with other writers?

T.S. Eliot was good friends with Ezra Pound, Robert Lowell was friends with Elizabeth Bishop, but Sylvia Plath said in an interview that she tried not to make friends with other writers because they happened to be rather narcissistic. 

But sometimes it seems that your friends make hasty generalizations about you, even though you’ve known them for so long. Maybe you’re just a person of many faces and you’ve only shown them one because you haven’t been presented with the opportunity to show them another side of you. And that is because you’re just one person in a group. What you want is outvoted by the majority.

Ah, well. These things just happen. I suppose you wouldn’t keep being friends if you didn’t have something in common. Even if that is less so than what you had in common during grade school.

On a rather disconnected side note, how do people in commercials always sound so happy? Most likely, they’re being paid well.

Please forgive my angst.

More poems are on the way!