The thrill of having you all to
Myself,
Alone Together
Sharing you with no one else,
Treating all others,
Friend and for alike,
As gravel on the pavement, I simply
Cannot.
The pretenses of our meetings
Borne of loneliness and self-consciousness ...
Surely we’d make
Strange bedfellows.
With each passing moon,
You and I would plant smooches of
“Fuck those other people,”
“You’re all that matters to me,” and
“It’ll be all right,
Baby don’t cry”
Over our
Emotional lacerations
Sunrise,
We return to
Misery.
And you,
Yearned for empowerment,
Ascension beyond your point of
Ascription,
While I,
Searched for knowledge,
The muses of my scribbling,
Most of all,
Myself.
With the descent of
Autumn leaves,
Winter snow,
Spring rain,
Stupidity of summers,
Somewhere,
I finished my journey
I discovered myself
And what I must
Become.
I know not if you’ve finished yours.
But I understand.
The futile struggle of fighting
Against the world
What it says we can and
Cannot be,
Especially you,
One who believes but won’t
Accept your supposed spot at the
Bottom.
In the past,
Bathing in hatred,
Licking each other’s wounds,
Brought tearful smiles to my face.
Now,
I’ve grown,
Understanding
Who I am and all the
Melodrama melded to
Self-definition,
And you’re still questing,
Seeking to surmount
Mountainous labels
Society bestowed onto you
I stand,
Arms folded,
Eyes lowered,
Yawning,
Watching you
Scale the summit of
Empowerment,
Struggling to reach
Glory atop the
Peak.
You pursue the
Dangled carrot, but I’ve
Chosen other food.
Because of this,
We see not from kindred eyes,
I care not for the infinite path of
Upwardness you traverse, and you hate
The notion of a man,
Enlightened,
Upsetting your order
Opposing your notions.
Nonetheless, I wish you
Luck
YOU ARE READING
Romantically Incorrect
PoetryBorn, raised, and currently living in Detroit, Michigan, Morgan Coby is a combination of many different things around him: the gritty realities of the city where he dwells, and the wondrous idealism from the fictional worlds of stories, cartoons, an...
