Life above the surface.

Hopelessness always presents itself as an open door
But entering it only delays the journey. I was stuck
Under currents that made me deaf, and did not expect
Ever to awake. But here I am. And my true self is not
Answerable to even the most professional of doubters.

Here I am. Held above the surface by my own resolve
The way poets and romantics of old had once done.
Who in their right minds would see me differently?
Yet Saturday, I was a maniac carting his own corpse.
A spiritless machine who doubts his lifeblood dreams.

Life in the open streets will not care for my name,
Perhaps. But life does not reject me either. I had always seen
The sour way that others look as an open rejection letter.
Yet, maybe this is only society in rejection of itself.
Hope is never lost as long as one is available to see it.

I talked to a hairdresser on Saturday, who opened her
Whole being to scrutiny. Did I feel guilty for being closed?
Of course. Even afterwards. There was a glow about her
That admitted me to dine with her like a heavenly disciple
even while her friends looked on. But this little journey

Had to end, like all good things. And I even cried
After leaving the place, to know how I must once again
Venture into the world that cared not for my soul nor
Even believed that it could communicate with another.

Postmodernism kills
All good things, but we are not machines.