apparently i haven't posted an OM for three years. feel privileged.
I was secretly in love with everyone I grew up with. -- Matt Berninger
Raised with a heavy hand, no cornucopia to nuzzle,
Seven siblings; each chose to be lonesome, above all
in a repressive setting Love was loathsome: a struggle.
Built a jigsaw yet every soul was its own chunk of puzzle,
Broke it, choked on the rubble, thought chewing was acrid.
Youth was erratic. Found myself in several places.
School sought to dull anything conceptually native,
Writing could lift scars that were indelible… plaintive,
Would oft bleed on the page to find the remedy makeshift,
From prodigious to prodigal, confidence effectively tainted,
This condition of living’s an unforgettable ailment.
I remember, a nascent, second-hand haze of that chemical fragrance,
The memory traces: lines pensive, and latent, yet to be painted.
Lulled in the hull of a tenable stasis,
I reflect and guess I always felt better berated,
A good posture is meant to be measured amazing
if and when there’s pressure pressing a head in the pavement.
Watching ink, which penned my next of kin, fading,
My lexical basis had little to no hold on more delicate phrasings
as the pendulum sways it
brings attention to the pencil’s thin shavings spread on the page. If
I only ever tried to emulate, ancient, elegant cadence
I’d be nothing but a celibate agent having never created.
I definitely created:
An ode to a seraph’s majestic greatness
or a swan song for those delicate, shaped, hips
made more potent/cogent only when it provoked objection,
Met the brother once -- third time I’d broken my septum.
Misplaced gestated seeds merely invoke a rejection.
Unsure where to sit, nearly tripped, at each end of an emotional spectrum:
I feared love, and loved to fear the very throes of acceptance,
Under a similar guise I strummed melodic strokes with a plectrum
in hopes it’d affect them hoe’s defects and I could grope in a bed but
it was so disrespectful, a soul’s proto-projection.
Never been shy, but with a lens? every photo’s an emblem,
Every fold on the camera roll’s an anecdotal lesson.
The way I shaped answers would depend on who’s asking.
I remember the feeling. It’s not like I’ve moved past it,
Who could move fastest out of the usual classes?
Scrutable clashes with pedagogues influenced a passive
-aggression, after I had the prudence to mask it. Before that it was classless,
ironic, abashment. Every authority figure’s a confluent bastard.
Repeat the pattern. Relapse. Reset the cannon and blast.
Select the penance and pad; present (at least) a semblance of fact,
Until each blue month resumes and I don’t seek to come anew,
to leak the ink in meek attempts to speak another truth.
If it was a secret(?) to be in Love with everyone I grew up with,
It wasn't hard to keep it when I never knew love’s pith.
peace out
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Originally Posted by Professor Frost
