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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An other to another

i’ve said this before,
but i’m fine with
touching myself.
why disappoint another?
besides, i know what to expect
and this pleases me.
we know what we like,
so why expect another to know?
i’m not desperate for physical contact
because i’m well within reach.
of course, if i’m dissatisfied with
myself, then i must seek validation.
hold on a second. why find another
to feel whole when they feel what
you do not? shit, nevermind, i may
just be breathing a rhythme
hop, skipped, jumped
by a majority who disagrees.
your hands are foreign,
but i appreciate your effort.
i shouldn’t be so harsh,
because i am an other
to an other.

My mind is an ashtray

looking down the
barrel of futility,
scurrying those
of achievement.
negation of being,
present complexity,
counters our ancestors.
i accept the debris
of that disposed.
treasure found amonsgt
the discarded.
gold shines upon the eyes
of those who see.
i walk blind,
generally,
but specific light,
illuminating what’s been missed.
this luster emanates a bias brilliance
my intellect cannot fathom.
i speak what i feel,
yet what i feel
does not always speak.