Miscommunication

It always happens this way:
me, filtering through layers of question
shaping what I know and like to know,
in the form of rhythmic sound.
A kind of quiet schizophrenia
inviting all the inner tides and alternative voices
to surface in an eloquent manner;
regulated by fences of creative license.
(this edge of insanity motivates me,
I am not crazy
I am a writer.)


Why do you do this to me?
Ask me how my day was,
then stand at an offensive stop sign, checking your watch
because all of my fragrant suggestions of happiness
bring us outside of convention;
as always.
You ask why I'm never complacent,
how I can make an easy situation into complex arrangements.

I frown at your lacking embrace of my parole here.
It's the same reason you love me,
(I plead internally).
I highlight the suggestion of human impossibility,
a realization you cannot bare to give into,
a battlefield of modern thought trial
where nothing ever wins, ever looses
but lingers in a devilish topsoil,
right under the feet and ready to attack the ground.

We are always waiting, watching for this wood to chip,
this coin to decay:
Can't you see, we are a series of uncomfortable states,
shining in human form.
To avoid our discomfort is to wage a rejection of gravity;
that same unspeakable force that drives us to the ground
is that which subjects us to cognitive question,
solitude only in the complacency of thought organization
(a glass of wine to induce a mellow vibe)
or the ignorance of bliss
(untouchable behind a shield of youth).

We are such a sad species.