Talking to myself

I keep talking to myself,
when I’m along and with other people,
I keep holding back when there’s not enough
and past these memories
I find ways to divide myself even further.

The singers started screaming
while their heads
fell into space.
And you’ve always
sat there listening
like you own some special place.
You lash out
from those quiet places
that’re rarely that observed,
like when you opened up
to the ones involved
with words that were deserved.
You try to help,
but you fuck things up
and leave me wishing I were fractioned.
Just a little off centered
where no one remembers
those awkward little actions.

Well, I know you’re naturally being lude
because I feel what you exude
when you analyze your food
like it allows you to be rude
and speak with such fortitude.

But it’s you that’s been diverted,
into yourself you’ve been inverted,
like a soul that’s been converted
where it’s not the way it’s worded
because your words are outright blurted.

So will you be the one to agitate,
or find a way to integrate?
And lean towards what gravitates,
hold doors for those arriving late
and fight for what they confiscate?
Maybe we’re not
the same at all,
in how I care the least I can.
Maybe this shift
was meant to happen
so we could follow other plans.
So should we turn away
from the faces we have
and those hopes that were our own,
just to be a broken record
that never moves forward
to share what it has known.
But we keep hating ourselves
for the way we’re there
and how we think the rest perceive.
Hearing whispers end
and looks begin
and knowing nothing will be retrieved.

Maybe it’s the novelty
of all my simple poetry
that’s still holding you and me,
in these dreams of reality
where there’s nothing left for us to see.

Though we rarely come in contact
for fear of keeping intact
those things that’ve grown abstract
when you judge me based on syntax
and its proper use that I’ve lacked.

Because I spit when you see objects
and all those things you reject
with words so far from context
then blaming it on reflex
and the fact that you’re still obsessed,
with her.

Or, maybe we can just stop
and forgive ourselves and each other
for anything and all the things
that we’re the ones
still carrying around.


About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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