The Disconnected Connected

Meeting of minds,
Navigating land mines in a bid to seal the deal; get what’s mine,
What’s good underneath this hood is often misconstrued,
Considered insufficiently withdrawn to fit the mood.

 

They say this heart to heart leaves their minds untouched,
They say it fails to match the fire with which they wish to have a brush,
I’m expected to cuss… suss out my opponents and fuss,
But I prefer to feel — keel over as I spill out my guts saying what hurts.

 

And they can relate I’m sure,
They just choose to seem to endure,
It’s an illusion, like snoozing an alarm and thinking of clinomania you’re cured.

 

I am astonished by my inability to admonish someone I know is hardly polished,
Not in the posh, snobbish sense of the description,
But the failure to fit my bill: the construct to my demolish.

 

We are so different you and I,
Where I wish to reply silent you would rather lie,
Where I would love to fly, grounded you would rather stay — shy.

 

I sometimes think you see not the effusion carried by this ink,
You know not how deeply within one you sink,
You fail to see all this pain I withstand for thee,
All this gain and glee I bring, my purpose being solely to give.

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