- Non-Erotic Poetry
- To My Philosopher, From Your Poet
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In my artistic mood
I mope,
Emotions magnified,
Every sentence has two meanings,
Or three,
Memories sting old wounds
And I bleed again...
For what?
With the question, I think of you,
My Philosopher.
Your theories
Are no more wrong than mine,
But still I fight with you.
My mind can not untangle
My own contradictions because,
Somehow, I believe in opposites.
Maybe that’s why I grapple
With the idea of us,
Being as similar as we are.
You see,
In adolescent dreams
You were my opposite.
Those keyholes to a far-off, fairy-tale “someday”
Mix now with other memories,
And add salt to wounds
Like those they used to bandage.
So now, will I keep them half-alive,
As they have kept me,
Or send them away
And trust you
To bring me hope that I otherwise have killed?
If I listen to myself, I will try both.
My Philosopher,
What is your theory on my self-torment?
When you ask the questions,
My answers make a zigzag path through my thoughts,
Yet you remain the one thing I can’t contradict.
