My cadence long since formed is familiarity
You, in some half-unknowing fashion, got in the way.
Be it known: you are my anger.

Is, then, maturity between us?
Or does my facade overshadow your jeweled possession?
I saw in your pretension a misty isle and so
My own pretension wishes to know many things –
Why your silence screams like innocence
Burning at the stake, arrest me with all you are.
Remember that I, too, was young.
Let it be indiscretion of a scarlet

My maturity is an uneasiness
In which I hold you inside of an island prism –
Be it yesterday, today, tomorrow.
Here, then, do I realize your pretensions
Are naught but a mirror of mine.
We both find ourselves lost at the hands of
My cadence – motion which holds me
At a loss for the need of apologies.

Be it known, at long last all this should be my peace.
Turn from me for this lifetime, suffer this no more.



This social life.
All the tiny, fractionate bits.
The roles to play.
Promises to keep on others’ behalf.

Play the social game.
We are in our twenties and
must finally mature, save
for the exceptions to rules;
canes and wheelchairs
feel they can speak their minds
without consequence.

But I am incorrigible.