Poem By Thomas Dorman
she speaks only to win,
even when her words contradict her last
Great Manifesto of her Conquests over Joy &
The conceptual 'happy home' -
She'd rather a clean house,
Than a happy home.
I was, in my earliest years,
My youngest memories, told I was
Nothing, but a harassement to her;
I'm sure one day,
This life will throw me flashbacks of a fool.
I guess I know I'm turning into him, &
I'd rather be another Thomas
In my gutter dreams;
My follies, my Ideal,
I see myself,
In that little grey area,
That so-called mid-life crisis
(as much as it could amass to
in comparison to the rest of my life) , &
I know that I will be expected by the fatality of cliché;
To make certain realisations,
and here's the clinch:
I've already made them.
At the age of fourteen,
I did what a forty year old should & would.
And yet, do I attempt to change my ways?
Do I rely on the maxim that 'love conquers all'? ;
To use another's feelings to preserve myself?
To feed off someone in order to
Extend my self-destruction?
Maybe, love really is beyond human comprehension:
Mating is instinct.
Relationships are imperfect and impure symbioses;
You build your tomb together,
But you fill it alone;
You lie together in bed,
But you sleep alone;
You 'make love together', but you
Screw each other individually -
You don't share that feeling,
You sense it alone, but just so
Happen to be nearby someone who
Guesses they're on the same wavelength.
But they're not.
aura-t-il jamais un fin?