Humanized Übermensch.

His experiences do not add up to what has become of him.

You loath me for the beauty that I cannot see, disregarded as you would say. Every day you nag in befitting abhorrent tone how I do not appreciate your so-called “art” or the works of it. I was condemned as an “artsasinator” when I placed your 23 year-old painting in the basement. Your friends even called me ignorant when I used you blue and white china bowl for my noodles. What could have been more appropriate than a Chinese food in a china? I mean really? Every day was like this, “why did I throw away the flowers in the vase, why did I serve tea from the vase?” when I am all puzzled why we have a vase in the first place. No, the ornaments and the intricate details of a nude sculpture do not interest me.  Have I no eye for beauty? Was I born in some primitive oven toaster to be so isolated and numb from art, fashion, and beauty that I should run around the town in Hawaiian shirts and hard-pressed slacks? I swear you hoped I was Archimedes instead, going about the town naked whilst shouting “eureka!” I may not know or understand, even attempt to understand what beauty is. But in the same way, you never understand that you are all the beauty I need.

I have been on a hiatus and have forgotten how my penmanship looks. I run my fingers across each word I have written to feel the force and the intensity that accompanied each carefree stroke and realize that I have never been more passionate and more excited than when I am writing. 

When words have lost their meaning and I am good as dead, I reckon for the faintest memories for they are all I have. We were never really happy, but we loved just how we were; someone to sleep beside, to cuddle when the nights were cold, and to do the chores we hate. We never really committed; we just satisfied each other’s fancies, laughed at each other’s jokes, and know we’re not alone. Then words have lost their meaning and you are gone and dead. 

 I am weak and unable, to dream even the faintest of dreams, to hope even with great possibilities, to belong even to the most adoptive circle. This alienation of strength has not been brought about by my exhaustion of living but by my exhaustion of dying, this series of decadence, this morbidity of continuously morphing into a complete cipher, a mere cadaver, a nothing.

You were a riddle.

I mistook you for a riddle. I have spent hours deciphering you, decoding your name, interpreting your words, reading your eyes, examining your body even. You had a boy’s name and a woman’s lips, a child’s eyes and a septuagenarian’s hair. You were happy and sad at the same time. You were and you were not. You had and did not have. You were mine then you were his until suddenly you were no longer a riddle, just another random mistake of the cosmos.

Write me a poem

Write me a poem about the spiral staircase that never ends and how you want us to make love on every tread.

Write me a poem about the little louse that has humans on its hair and write their names and their love stories.

Write me a poem about the fairy who cannot fly, who loves stones instead of flowers and worms instead of butterflies.

Write a poem about the most forlorn man who never cried or the happiest boy who never laughed.

Write me a poem about magic and things my eyes have not seen and I shall write you a poem about love and happiness as you have never known.