Handfuls of air

trying too hard
to be myself
when what i am
is not hard.
softly spread thin
and losing substantiality,
this coarseness requires
an acquired taste.
such grit kneads
loose regard.
debris tickles
fickle fingers,
to which winds
pull grasps.

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Niceties better spent

the response was easy
noninvasive, prying the general
cost of reciprocation limited
to effort given.
goodnight…
or not.
response is a choice,
so why am i surprised?
maybe it’s because those
i’ve thanked, wished well,
or commented, have generally
responded in a similar fashion.
genuine or not,
i was met half way.
disregard an extended hand,
i now reach for my balls.
i might as well scratch
an itch than gain a lawsuit.

Playing with myself.

i did it again.
i can’t help it.
i’m with myself,
i had to do it.
it’s something i’ve developed.
i tried to stop,
but i can’t.
i just have to accept,
i play with myself.
my extended hand,
it’s motion,
deters an others grasp.
hey, i washed and
i was courteous about it,
why the apprehension?
oh, maybe i wasn’t clear.
but how can i be
when i’m solid.