A Poem by Lola Nation

I once described a friend, who subsequently I had a crush on, as aesexual. It of course came back to bite me in the a*s later.



Endocrine paint brush strokes
Caution, wet floor
(as I stand in the corner)
You critique my work
Accuse me of labeling
you like a Warhol rendition
of aversion
this concept created
in my mind
according to you
for what I do not want to hear,
but I have listened.
Capturing momentary
and transient figures
that slip through broken
movements of unmixed color
I illustrate from closed doors of my mind,
sketched out and defined
by you, the modern Louis Leroy,
--that it’s all unfinished matters.
False in formation
under developed
over opinionated
delusion, somehow
you believe this is how
I lead my life –
chasing paintings
and collecting grief
for what is not so perfect.
How can I ignore or be deaf
to what is already silence?
Just enough response,
to contemplate maybe
until I am weary and lonesome
enough to give up and in
to a whim that disappoints
all the same, there you smirk
counting in vain, name by name
my head sullenly nods in shame
as you consider me broken,
You read through me
in divided stanzas,
lingering lines, emotional
outcries and you replied
with awe, surprise
stating that I tell all
while you tell no one
people ask
you watch, observe
distant –
while I remain
an orphan in your doorway.
You sardonically point out
fundamental personality flaws
in which you admit you share,
Demonstrating I am not the one,
for you (and perhaps anyone)
my ideals too romantic,
my thoughts obsessive
bordering delusion in feeble attempts
to reach, seek and find my home.
You close and lock doors
for women who lie, cheat and steal;
while I wait distant outside
staring in, starving for attention.
I traveled miles to escape
the constant elated rejection
of loving you, not for false hope
of alluring transformation
of a situation long since past –
I could not stare any longer
without tactile affection
I could not listen anymore
to the absence of emotion
How can such volatile perception
be false?
Kinsey reports
utilize the description
that you are oppressed
by a consensus that you
are non existent –
while I beg to differ
I have to believe that
you could not desire me,
nor did I see you covet another –
surely, of course
you were above such affairs
In the last of my contemplation,
I find myself weak and angered
with the same recurring frustration
 just enough rope for a noose of maybe
hanging in and hanging on
praying, you’ll kick the chair
from under me.

© 2008 Lola Nation

Author's Note

Lola Nation
please let me know if this is too difficult to comprehend, often we poets are too far in our own skulls to make sense to others. any advice is welcome.

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the poet's curse, to try to make sense of these glass houses we call our hearts...oh, here's a good hefty stone...

Posted 11 Years Ago

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Added on November 9, 2008


Lola Nation
Lola Nation

Los Angeles, CA

Please find my work on these two sites. For poetry: For short stories: ABOUT ME: I am originally from Venice Be.. more..

Careened Careened

A Poem by Lola Nation