This Is How It Is

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It’s like this.
Pen in hand, he feels as though he is both behind medieval shield, and laid bare for all to witness.
Peering out from a solid, heavy, sharp-edged fortress
Whilst repeatedly adjusting, as best to hide his pale nakedness –
This image no doubt causing both author and viewer distress.
But, it fits.
The words do what they will to escape the oddness.
Sometimes in a hurry, a jumbled, stumbling mess,
Others escaping with things worthy of confess,
Whilst others still, amble. Meander. Dawdle along, goalless.
No sense to it.
Thoughts are either a babbling stream,
Or viscous lava with cracks of liquid fire in gleam.
Unconsciously conjured into being, as if manifested dream;
Heavy with feeling but never revealing what they mean.
Something. Is. Amiss.
Because at other times, they need coaxing from their broken home,
Feeling antisocial, apathetic, needing to be alone.
Or clinging to their captive, exhibiting Stockholm Syndrome.
Drawing blood, crimson fingered, kicking and biting, too terrified to roam.
And so, he sits.
When those words choose their moments to escape
He is at their will and can only stare agape,
Wondering, are they foolish? Too weighty? Able to be undone?
Or so inconsequential, of no impact at all; to be shunned?
This is how it is.

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