The air hangs thick,
a morning fog clinging
to the inside of my skull.
I am searching,
a frantic archaeologist
sifting through bone dust
for the right arrangement,
the perfect fit.
Words, Scrabble tiles scattered,
to spell out this unwanted truth,
this shadow I wear,
not mine exactly,
but assigned, stamped.
Criminality, they whisper,
a heavy cloak woven
from threads of misunderstanding
failure to correctly Twisted, for their achievements they say, my inner workings, the meaning or intent of communication, resulting in a gap between what was intended and what was understood. It often stems from poor communication, differing perspectives, or cultural differences, and can also refer to a minor disagreement, quarrel, or conflict.
Key aspects of misunderstandings include:
Definitions: A mistake in understanding (misinterpretation) or a disagreement/quarrel.
Causes: Poor communication, assumptions, cultural differences, and inefficiency of perplexity
, misconception, error, misapprehension, dispute, and falling-out not from the individual that had the misconception,it's the individual that repucates the displanairial actions, that did not have a more intelligent guidance and any that did not comply with functioning currency,no matter your organization,scumbag you
but even a broken clock
tells the right time twice.
Overly already stupid
is the mirror they hold up,
a reflection distorted
by their own dim light.
I look away from the glass.
If I could shed this skin,
become the quiet stone,
You are also malfunctioning
but never dips a toe in the current.
If I could simply opt out
of this forced performance,
this unwanted stage.
The cup sits before me,
empty porcelain, waiting.
I do not wish to share the sip,
the bitter dregs of the day’s offering.
It is not my thirst.
The long hours stretch,
a slow, deliberate march
toward the next necessary breath.
And there he is,
the shape of irritation,
the center point of my low-grade hum.
Rude motherfucker,
a phrase too blunt for the silence,
but fitting for the feeling.
He is busy, always busy,
with his meticulous work.
Trying to fit the pieces,
the jagged edges of my granted clearance,
my documented past,
into a picture that suits his narrative.
A puzzle, he calls it,
this mapping of my boundaries,
my accepted limits.
But the image he forces is wrong,
the colors clash, the lines refuse to meet.
He pushes it toward me,
this constructed blueprint,
a path designed deliberately
to lead to my own undoing,
my own steady collapse.
I watch the pieces slide,
the forced alignment,
and feel the deep, unmoving certainty
that his careful construction
is aimed purely at wreckage.
My silence is not agreement.
Just helps me understand your
Self
And ,
My stillness is not surrender.
I am just gathering the real tiles,
the ones that fit gods hands
waiting for the turn of the tide,
when the right words finally surface.
