GENTLEMAN OF PANACHE

Emotional regulation calls for stifling of all feelings and spontaneity, Careful titration of social tensions and mulling over emotional currents that often weigh the heart, And harmonizing the voice of doubt and its close cousin the voice of indifference, In due course, such emotional labor takes toil on oneself and makes someone feel sheathed in a translucent haze of indifference, Often transmuting oneself into an insulated layer of unvoiced yearning. We each have an inner map of our proclivities, abilities and deficiencies, Mine is optimism, harboring an affectionate heart and a dreamer of sorts, A dreamer filled with dainty and beautiful dreams, just like butterflies, Sadly, at a time, life wrecked my dream ship on the sharp rocks of reality, Reality that scrapes off scales of self until one feels naked and false, Verily, realism vultures have a way of emotionlessly hacking into one's memory carcass and splintering pieces of the memories all over the floor. Realit

COME, The poet is seeking to reveal the secret beauty of his artistic soul, Allow him to offer, at some deep unexplored level, a window into his heart, The poet invites you to gracefully drape one of your legs over the other, And listen to the poet’s whispered words as they float up to you like ghosts in an ancient forest. THIS POET, His peace is shattered, Fleeting images flood through his mind, fussing like a broody hen, Or like a gust of arctic wind that bursts in and blows out all the candles when the door cracks open, Passionate longings leap up to hug his heart, Distant voices appear, ebb and then appear again, Questions intrude, gnawing provocatively at his heart, His mind is pulled towards rockier shores, Easily bruising the poet’s raw emotions. TO ESCAPE THE EMOTIONAL PRISON, I tend to sit in silent presences, Silent presences that elicit neither passion nor fire in the veins, I tend to wander off on solitary walks, Along the tremb

When words are too weighty for the mouth, the soul weeps in anguish, Mine is howling unceasingly presently. Regardless of what I do, there is no way to console it, I feel withered and gloomy, Expressions flee! I feel lonely, I'm lonely in some horribly deep way, For a flash of an instant, I can see just how lonely and how deep this horrible feeling runs, It jolts me to be this lonely because it seems ruinous. Safe haven I seek in my pen and ink, Somewhere, mixed in with all this ink, is my bliss, Tears are words that need to be written. Ho! Ho! Ho! When I write, my heart heals, my woes are drowned! I am a genius of sadness, I immerse myself in it, I separate its numerous strands, and I appreciate its subtle nuances. I am a prism through which sadness is divided into its infinite spectrum. I choose to write because it's perfect for me. It's an escape, a place I can go to hide. It's a friend, when I feel out casted from everyone else. It's a journ

Much ink has been spilled by an array of authors in a motivated endeavor to theorize the elementary of human connection; sadly, no one is closer to understanding it thus far! I must confess, I have grown entirely profound of this phenomenon myself and I have since plunged into the discussion by making myself a subject of study. I have engaged in it for a while now, this chat on human connection. Though sometimes I wonder if I am engaged in soliloquy as opposed to a conversation of merit; it feels, every so often, like I am standing on one side of a wide chasm shouting across, and wondering if I hear any response out there or if it is my own voice echoing back to me. From my side of the canyon, I habitually reflect that the search of unity with another is the font of much of the world’s joy and unhappiness of equal measure;it brings the best out of the world and the worst too on occasion. In an endeavor to make logic of this phenomenon, I have endured through a series of curate

Sweet silent thoughts, I reminisce my Muse, These crafted poetic words strip every beauteous thought, And reserve them as a letter to my lady. Far, across seas you are, Your absence debars me the benefit of joy, Days are oppressive and nights do not ease either, Each, though enemies to either's reign, do in consent shake hands to torture me, The one by toil, the other to complain of the absence of your warmth. The quiet of the nights keeps my drooping eyelids open wide, My soul's imaginary sight presents thy shadow to my sightless view, How I envy those who are in favor with their stars and are in the arms of their beloved! Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, I miss you every day. Your eyes have played the painter and have stolen me, Your body is the frame wherein I am held, Now see what good those eyes have done, Those eyes are windows to my heart, Wherethrough the sun delights to peep, to gaze therein on me. Those eyes I miss. You have taken all

I normally indulge in a litany of frenzy lacing of words to ooze the tacit expressions enslaved within me, It eases my inner self and keeps my face from streaming with silent tears that threaten to flood when ghosts of my gruesome past clank their medieval chains in the path of my happiness turning my joy into ashes in my mouth. It is my ritual you know, I love making strange words burst out into hollow laughter on a piece of paper as they get acquitted to each other, I fancy sitting in silence, in a silence filled with many of my unwhispered stories, A ritual I uphold often. I sit and meditate, caressing antagonist expressions in my mind until a large enough visible consensus vocalizing a poem is reached and then I lay it down like so: I have lived a truly sheltered life, burrowing deeper into the bubble of seclusion, I am not interested in being that laid back human anymore. You see, this thought of you came to my mind, I wanted to ignore it but then it got in my head an