Saturday, August 14, 2010

a poem by a faust: as a youth refused & ridiculed by those beautiful, popular, and rich



innocence alone
or, in a world of strangers


profoundest of desires deep inside to lay you bare
& taste passions whose assumption is divinity
but walls and masks and games before you'd let me touch you there
& I'm not old or wise enough to be who I will be

Words I've said and haven't said visit me like lies
like vague approximations even I don't understand
the closest and most honest of them still a thick disguise
a touch Divine and brilliant yet eludes these clumsy hands

Maybe I won't weep because i acted amateur
& pushed you farther still before we ever really met
you may think the effort wasted, me I'm not so sure
I only know I have to try: there's nothing I regret.

& maybe you won't notice if, with all my art & soul,
I try to make you laugh & gasp & turn around & feel
an act when truly genuine is more than just a role
we'll all be actors anyway
with practice I'll be real



























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