The only thing worse than a sick car is a sick person. Or a sick pet. The only thing worse than a sick pet is a sick person. Depending on the person, that may not be true.
I woke up behind bars, a little bit more insane than when I went to sleep. Pacing. Pacing around a too small cage. If I can't hear from you sometimes I start losing it. You sometimes need a friend to talk to, but I always need you. I just need to hear from you whether it's consequential or not. The slightest contact resets my day, and without it I suffer a little bit more, and a little bit more. Don't tell me you don't know what to say. Look out your window and tell me about a cloud, or a piece of a tree. Tell me of the childlike drawings on your refrigerator door. Tell me anything, anything. Tell me of the bitterness of your morning coffee. Tell me anything, just talk to me. These long days and nights without contact send me spiraling down into despair, and I turn into someone I don't care to be.
Look in the mirror and tell me how your eyes look. Tell me of your eyes. Your eyes. My God: your eyes. Tell me of the touch of your fingertips. Tell me. Tell me. I always need you. So tell me.
20090601
Tell Me
Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom.
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"If I can't hear from you sometimes I start losing it." Mmm, yes, sometimes one feels rather antsy and restless if they've been caged alone for too long.
ReplyDelete"Tell me anything." Whoa. My heart just changed its rhythm when I read this line. God...I know exactly how the speaker feels...
"And I turn into someone I don't care to be." I love that I can relate to this poem so much, and yet, I'd never be able to find the words to express this psychological state, so thank you for letting me read this. I needed that.
"My God: your eyes." YES! THE EYES OF GOD! Brilliant. :D
this kind of separation is like the charge on a capacitor building up. . . .and building up. . . .and building up. it's all abt neurotransmitter receptors, abt oxytocin and dopamine, and the triggers to get those flowing are not what we ordinarily assume them to be, as this described phenomenon addresses. sometimes it's the message content, but more fundamentally it's the fact of the message itself; the mere fact of there being a message.
ReplyDeleteas for the eyes of god. . . .gatsby this ain't.
The first three lines already set a delirious mood that is followed through to the end with ruthless insistence.
ReplyDeleteThe constant repetitions, the vivid emotions, the maniacal repeating cries for understanding, invitations for interaction: Tell me, tell me, tell me- it set me in a hypnotic kind of trance.
"You sometimes need a friend to talk to"- yeah, it's true, so true that no matter how perfect a being you may be, no matter how intelligent, how refined, cold or bitter, no matter what a bloody Overman you are- still your brain seems addicted to contact with the outer world. In fact, intelligence only amplifies that addiction. The brain seems to be constructed with output as a main design aim. There seems a kind of equilibrium of input/output principle and when that balance is in peril- so is our mentality and well-being. Too much internal pain calls for output- tears, crying, screams. Too much sexual tension calls for sexual intercourse. Neglect of this- neurosis. Too many thoughts or worries- expression is paramount to the upheaval of sanity. The problem is when there's no one there to hear your mind and that's, I reckon, what your poem is about. Not bad concept there, not bad at all.
yes louis; i've kept wondering during the last month how to write this down, portraying the embedding of human souls in a world involving sensory inputs and outputs with all values being subjective but simultaneously true because of their subjectivity, but haven't hit upon a way to do it and here you do it in your 3rd paragraph. these comments of yours are going to cause me to pause and reflect and assess and reassess. . . .as they often do.
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