Little Somethings - A Poetry Collection

outside view

Behold all sweet love songs though he is one himself.

Yet he still sings these love songs like he's never known the feeling as his own, sings sad songs in ways that speak of time, not used to mourn.

But he doesn't know how the world sees him, in ways indescribable, with a eye that's indestructible. Seen in a way inunderstandable to the mind of the observer.

He knows he is alone, in a world that is not his own. In a world visible to his mind alone, where he feels so not-alone due to "things" that to others are unknown. In a world where a mind mind at peace is impossible, even in his home.

Sleeping is rare, despite a major need, but there are voices in his head, creatures by his feet. These "things" he knows as unreal, they grow like a seed, calmly in their crib until they are awoken, till they are freed.

Love to him is this huge concept that he understands, yet currently feels unable to grasp. The only love he seems to know comes from books, it comes from screens, hardly ever his own dreams. The love of a parent is felt by him, but now unknown, it seems.

But these "things" he hears, the "things" he sees, they make it hard to grasp emotion, to him it is like looking overseas from a land encircled by mountain that reach the horizon, enclosing him in no more than his own four walls.

The sea, he still longs for it. It hasn't been long since he last felt the waves brushing against his skin, the crashing of them cleaning his body from within. Times were better then, no scribbles on pages and the ongoing noise of a dried-out pen.

He sings these love songs to drown out thought, voice and the everlasting fear of losing himself. They remind him of all the feelings he experiences in better times, times where emotion isn't drowned out by screams, where it isn't just on movie screens.

To the outside he seems normal, just a bit reserved. In inner circles he is seen as broken, but not unfixable. The few he trusts, they know him best, know every assessment, every test he takes to confirm he's not insane. But their view is not the same.

Not the same as the chaos in his head that he can barely bear, the chaos that makes him too aware of life. Too aware of his own evanescence, which makes a rollercoaster of his conscience. Times like these make him overthink existence to the point where he doesn't seem to know if he's still real or if he's already ended up dead, currently being some worm's meal.

But waves come rolling in as they go rolling back out again, insignificant to sea and shore as they grow and shrink with the tide. Each wave is an episode, just like his. Some crashing with a force that pushes you against the beach, others barely strong enough to be noticed.

But as the waves on the sea wash up sand and shells from deep below, as do his waves wash up memories from the depths of his mind. Some shells get pulled back down to be never seen again, other might be collected, just like these memories. But sometimes the tide leaves marks on the shore, marks that will never wane, just like his tide leaves marks that will make him never be the same.

But to others he's a lovesong, so bittersweet as the thinking about the seemingly never-ending sea with waves that are never the same. But neither are lovesongs. Every lovesong tells a story, one that changes with every listen and every observer.

Behold all sweet lovesongs, though they all cause us pain.