Your love — there’s just something about it

by me.

Your love….
I don’t know — there’s something about it
It just hits…different

Marvin Gaye plays through the shaky speakers
The CD always skips at this part,
But you don’t miss a beat

The smooth melody of his voice
Moves through your soul
Like a dancing cobra winding up your spine

Your hips sway
With the oceanic rhythm of the drums

Your energy
It just feels so …. Alive

While you’re lost in the rapture of Inner City Blues
I’m lost
In You

I watch you Quietly And wonder about you I…


image by me.

Thoughts of THEM make me question who I am.

The Audience

The Critic

The Observer.

What will They think of me?

Will They like it?

What kind of sneakers are They wearing?

and why are They so mean?

THEY

The fictitious construct

that limits my expression

of who I am.

Faceless

Nameless

Critical

Illusions

Watching over my every thought, every word.

What is it I desire?

What am I convinced They can give me?

Are They the part of me who desires to be loved?

or my fears of whether I’ll be accepted?

and if I am rejected, what does…


The Dust

undetected

micro-beliefs

shaped by our reactions

to life

become dusty fractals

on the lens

of how we see the world…

and ourselves.

What is blocking your view

of the possibilities?

by me.


ABDUCTED

You know the feeling

When you wake up and wonder

If you said anything embarrassing

when you were abducted in your sleep?

If you talked to the aliens

too much

About the perfect

Tea-to-oatmilk ratio (3:1)

Or

Busta Rhymes’ videos?

When you feel like

The emptiness of your mind

Goes from being zen

To uninteresting

Boring

Lame.

If I am this nothingness,

How do I relate to the aliens

or to the world?

Disconnected and disinterested

In the day-to-day of society

Time has become a distorted illusion,

An attempt at awareness beyond my comprehension.

The loss of my brand

And the concept of how I am seen

What I represent

My vibe

Perpetually unobserved

Who have I become?

How will they see me?

Who do I want to be?

The Rebuilding begins.


A poem… I guess… poem-ish

Image by Author

My slippery fingers

Grip the plastic

Of the inner tube

That my body lay across

Floating down a cosmic lazy river

Just letting life pass me by

Drifting aimlessly past…

The wavepool

A mosh pit of wet bodies

Fat men wearing T-shirts

To block the shame

Tormented by their own minds

About who they have become

Battered by the waves

Of society

Drowning in emotional oppression

Unable to reach solid ground

Past…

The lifeguards

Whipping their whistles around their fingers

Looking on

Dazed

Daydreaming about when their real lives will begin

Past…

The waterslide

That slow climb to the top


Who lives in my heart

Sometimes …

We’ll sit on the crumbling temple steps of Angkor Wat

Sometimes…

We’ll watch the fiery sun rise over the Red Sea

Sometimes …

We’ll dance on the cliffs of Negril

And

She’ll ask me…

“Who

Is

It

You’re

Dancing

For,

Child?”


does what you think

of me

define

who

i am

?


….

I’m thirsty

i should drink some water

but my glass

is wayyyyyy

the hell

over there.


4 minutes

What if…

My teabag

dreamt about

this day

and I didn’t

even

steep it?


i bet future me

would really appreciate it

if i washed this dish

so i’ll do it

tomorrow.

Kim McCloskey

Contemplator. Imperfectionist. Brooklyn

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