Manimals

I took a few steps back,
In the progress of my mind.
I thought it'd be quaint,
to regress, I thought I'd
be kind.

Pity leaves a sour taste,
What's there?  Some lesson,
Some reason, a waste?
A Waste.
It's of no consequence.
I felt a failure at conversing,
My muscles were kicking
And screaming, the sitch was
Tense.

He couldn't tell,
I faked it well.
A piece, the piece that I trapped,
I could feel the drain,
Palpable was the collapse.

The Manimals are coming,
They're already here,
He, Him, They, it,
No matter my rejection,
He is near and he is no fit.

This is all, this is life,
No dress-ups, no resets,
I want the strife.
Between this and nothing,
I choose this;  Yet I am
remiss to trade integrity
for imitation.

Floundering, I knew my act,
I put it on, He ate it up,
I sacrificed my tact,
He couldn't get enough.

His eyes and mine hardly met,
He spoke much and said not,
I want someone to get,
What purposeless time is spent,
Talking much and saying little,
Is a worse fate for me then
Death.

L is for the way...

I watched the band file in and onto the stage.  I noticed that the guitar guy and the cello chick were acting awfully cozy on their stroll up the stairs to their night of cacophonous creative freedom.  Then as the band performed sound-check, an epiphany struck me as bold and soulful as the melodies themselves:

Love is simply the placement of a man and a woman in proximity to one another for an extended period of time.    

Think about that statement and find fault.  It sounds pragmatic and a tad rigid but so full of truth it hurts my heart to admit it.  Would the guitar guy and cello chick have ever found each other otherwise?  They were random musicians, selected for their talent.  They would have never knew the other existed if not for this random placement.  Then on stage, they were saddled in space and time near each other and voila!  Love springs eternal.  Or at least until the band dismembers.  If a man and woman spend enough time together in close quarters...attraction begins and love grows.  Whether that shit lasts is another topic altogether.

I met an interesting man on a bus.  After sharing my findings with him, he brought up the theory of sparks.  You know those things you're suppose to feel when being with another?  I guess it's been a while.  I remember laying on my floor, reading song lyrics with butterflies in my stomach;  Writing poetry and having hope.  Does aging beget a coldness that tends to taint every endeavor?  Perhaps sparks are for the young.  Perhaps I'm using growing up as an excuse to be fearful.  I miss the zeal I use to feel when waking up in the morn and wondering what the day would bring...what forms of love I'd fall in that day.  A deep pervading sadness follow my decisions as of late as I still haven't found what I'm looking for.  Doesn't seem fair really, to be granted this precious time and waste it lost in feeling.

I once thought love was music.  You could be caught up in daily life and then a song comes on that physically moves your bones.  Almost as though an unspeakable depth connects without your conscious awareness and connects you to the present.  Is that the spark, my bus-man was referring to?  I think so.  I long for that back.  I had it once but forgot where I put it.