your signature of ongoing silence
has well documented the decree.
a volume of moments,
filled momentously, with nothing to be said,
makes the novel, a lucid read between the lines.
autobiographically, each chapter,
resides deep in the enfolds
behind the stoic obviousness,
as it thematically repeats of itself.
as for reading material,
the history between the covers of now and then,
is that it administers of itself,
maybe without any revelations.
readership only requires one set of eyes,
that of its author.
if you truly believe in yourself
then you don’t peruse it at all
just to prove your own worth,
but by rhetorical questions,
they only allow for your own answers.
yet, not a moment passes that not filled
with this lip service of this ongoing silence.
every time you put this wall up,
it quite privately turns into, a dam of self alone
as an intimate internal environment of private apprehension
which then turns into self-administered shame.
it is a concealed self-judgment call
that no one else actually hears
or would directly say face to face,
but the potential for that to occur
in a first person manner,
is chilling, in and out itself.
truth that features defense
of its principledness as monitored,
is not as authentically deep
as truth that lives of its self, spontaneously,
as generative empowers while projective only pleases.
condescension starts with the rise
of a willful place within
that takes over
as if emotionally supported to do so
and then wields this self-judgment
upon all the surround in play
as if decision’s maid.
bitch does not really exist as a noun
pretended to be such as a name calling,
but more so as a verb.
the attitude of supreme isolation
that rules of itself
and as if every one near by,
be it by voice or by body language
or by public self, holding private court cares
while in the presence of others
as in, bitching, overheard
but really not intended for audience intervention,
yet they reap those pseudo benefits hurled their way . . .
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