there's
no way
to say
what I want to say--
it's nameless,
it's real
and it isn't real,
I'm positive of it
and I don't believe in it,
it's impossible to describe
and that's exactly why
I'm trying.

but I know you look at the world
newly expected into it
and it seems that all of your
personal truth
is going to bring exile
like surviving alone in nothingness.

but you haven't yet seen
the complete shape
of the pieces to this puzzle
that these weasels have
so
intricately assembled.

everything is possible when you're young
because imagination is accepted,
and your futile playgrounds
make sense
because you are too young to labor.
ah, but they will come for you,
they will come
like something soft
in a room shrouded with nightmares
and they will offer
you
plenty of insurance
and airbags for all the basic tragedies.

but they think like cement,
they look at forests
and see possible roads,
they are unaware of
balance
integrity
the rise of the tides,
and they call me lost
and I call them dead.

you with a beautiful look and exterior
will find celebration
because beauty
deserves to be celebrated,
but the mirror
will repay you with years
and decay.
you cashing in on intelligence
will be reported with flare and riches
because intelligence
is needed in any game,
but whenever you're playing games
you're always playing
against somebody.
I am prejudiced against art
because it is my favorite form,
it is sacredly purposeful
because it has no purpose
and is therefore
almost
as important as laughter,
but all
the greats
that I've gathered as company
always seem to have been leaning
over the edge of madness.

you'll meet people who call themselves
artists
only because it makes them feel better
than a carpenter,
you'll meet men in suits whose skin
is sown
out of legal tender,
you'll meet teachers who mock expression
philosophers who don't think
war heroes too weak to love,
and all of it
all of it
because of fear
fear of death
fear of eternity
fear of broken bones
fear of thought
fear of being wrong
fear of general wilderness,
and all the while
silence is the loudest sound
you can hear.

people will do anything to
ignore it.

people maintain sanity with football
and barbecues and checkbooks and
weather reports and car payments,
anything to ignore the hungry silence
where bravery
and peace
and destruction
all come from,
anything to not have to respond
to the state of the world.

I know, believe me, I've been there--
you're about fifteen
you look out on the horizon
you're given civilization
and it all looks like
a million monkeys
trying to fuck a football,
it's busy
and loud
and it doesn't make any sense.

there's no way
to say
what I want to say,
but if you hear
one thing
I hope it's this:
listen to the silence.

you will be speaking back to it
someday.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...