Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Who's That?

I feel so completely discarded,
Put away from the intimate world;
A banner removed and rolled tight,
Not waving, no longer unfurled.

I exist from each hour to hour,
Waiting for solace of night
Which brings freedom from much apprehension
Of the next back turned or a slight.

I've covered up deep-seated feelings,
And found work to make a small difference;
In a place of numbers and budgets,
Not affirming my spirit's existence.

Rewards come from being tough minded,
Thick skinned, hard nosed and objective.
I've learned these skills and am adequate,
Sometimes awkward, excessive, protective.

Though it's not really me that's exposed,
But a reflection trying to please
The powers that be to survive
In a world full of conflict, appease.

It's taken a toll on my being.
I'm sick in my heart and scared.
Those I've needed but hurt by withdrawal
Have given up, quite unprepared

To deal with a soul inauthentic,
A caricature of another;
An imitation, a fraud, a pawn,
When they wanted to be with a lover.

I'm so out of touch with the truth,
I admit I don't know the way back.
The world says, "Rely on yourself".
Who's that? I've lost him in fact.

Occasionally another has shared
That I've touched them in ways quite profound.
The settings are outside of business,
And encourage my staying around.

I long for a place and connections
Where that happens more often than not.
I have need for a guide who knows how
To help me to live, not to rot.


The Phantom said...

I know someone very like the person you describe so this touched me deeply. There is a question in this for both the person described and those that they push away and I daily wish I had the answers.

Poetikat said...

Naturally, I see this poem as autobiographical, although I don't really know you well. If it is in fact the case, you are more guilt-ridden than even I, for being a Catholic. Your guilt seems to be self-inflicted.
Poetry is such catharsis, is it not?

Leanderthal, Lighthouse Keeper said...

All my poems are from The Poet and the Pendulum as it says in the Blog heading. That book was essentially a memoir to my four sons about how a man can deal with the alternating swings of the pendulum of life. I chose to write about one swing of that pendulum, a swing from fear to freedom. The poems of depression and guilt come early. By and by there came poems indicating changes in dealing with such. Betsy's drawings portray a man clinging to the pendulum for dear life, then getting on his knees, then standing and finally letting go. That's the progression intended by the placing of the poems in the collection.

Thanks so much for your interest and comments.