I sit alone in the vicinities of my mind
typing long words.
they strive to describe what i am not feeling inside
because that’s the heart of it –
the task of explanation
Who cares, or rather, as my Daddy taught me to say, who minds
what you are feeling, whether you are filled with pride or humility
an embarrassing rage that speaks of simplistic stupidity?
there is no talent, in speaking to me about those pronounceable words
there is no skill in presenting me with a myriad of thesaurus sourced euphemisms that explore your definable explanation of a long word.
Stop wasting my time presenting me with anaphoric rhymes
to illuminate this caged mind, literate in the arts of basic signs
not hemmed in by the metaphysics of a sacredly rhetorical design.
You clack away at the keyboard, chiming out a discordant harmony
that some pretentious [insert long word only found in the OED which isn’t concise but spliced into sections of archaic symbols which people can’t even be bothered to define] –
decided to call minimalist, or surrealist music, but to my ears it is just that: discordant chords with neither rhyme nor reason, in both the wrong time signature and season
trying to create a melody out of grating bones that evoke a macabre remedy to the deprived eyes that glare at these very long words.
Let me give you some advice.
just as it appears in the tangled thoughts that think they are special for resembling chaos
just as you feel before you try to re-write it for a better rapport with the PhD lecturer who lives on your polished floor
Just say it.
that struggle is the sound of exactly what you are feeling inside
as the clacking keyboard falls gently to the floor, sprinkling into broken glass
which sings, like the lark beckoning the distant dawn.