Saudade

A stream of conscious poem reacting to recent events in my life. Revised twice but remains as instantaneous as it was first written

Saudade

I feel I am talking to myself in a new language,
I can barely describe this,
It’s getting up early to see the sun rise,
It’s your failure to see how hard I tried,
It’s sitting alone on the bus, it’s simply not wanting to discuss
                everything
                                      nothing
                  one thing.

It’s resenting other’s happiness and then feeling guilty,
It’s feeling guilty and then realising its futility,
It’s the brutality of my own flawed creativity,
It’s coming up with s**t line after s**t and writing s**t poems to express a tormented psyche,
when really i’m just like every other stupidly useless conscience in this street
                                                                                               in this city 
                                                                                               in this country.

It’s pathetic catharsis,
It’s regretted inertness, 

It’s smiling at a passer-by
It’s frowning at the cast-iron sky

It’s the myriad colours that bore into my eyes,
It’s reds too bright and yellows too light,
It’s blacks too dark and whites too stark,
It’s complicating what’s simple,
It’s simplifying what’s complicated,
It’s saying, ‘promiň, promiň, děkuji’
It’s screaming, ‘why the f**k isn’t it me!’
It’s not being blind but feeling hopelessly myopic,
It’s failing to see all that isn’t chaotic,
It’s allowing myself to slide all the way down,
It’s being nothing but a solitary pronoun,
It’s rising like a demented Daedalus,
It’s aiming for the sun,
                                                  conscious
that despite the impending fall,
                                                  I will be victorious!

It’s changing stimuli to alter moods,
It’s altering moods to be renewed,
It’s trying to dignify the flaws I exude,
It’s vying to demystify the ideal I pursued,
                                                               to the end,
                                                                                a berated bench, blue.
                                                                                a fading ghost, you.

It’s an action that typifies a delusion,
It’s the one that stifles my inclusion
                                in a place I don’t want to be,

It’s stepping out of my comfort zone,
It’s taking plaudits for embarking upon the unknown,
It’s the pleasure of a precious passenger,
It’s expecting the spectacular,
It’s the punch-in-the-face of reality,
It’s the lingering taste of unexpected finality,
It’s the echoes of times before,
It’s the foreshadowing of a future forevermore.

It’s being forced to resist your allure,
It’s listening to every song by The Cure,
It’s Boys Don’t Cry,
It’s thinking that’s utter bullshit, just a lie.

It’s holding it all inside,
It’s knowing I cannot abide,
It’s slamming the door to ignite a thrill,
It’s climbing to the top of Petřin hill
               and screaming FUUUUUUUUUUCK! at this place
               at Our Lady, at Charles, at the passing of time,
               at a city decayed by the words of a new generation
               at everything
                                         at nothing
                                                                at one thing

                at me
                               at you
                                               at you

until I’m a dulled blue,
until I’m lulled,
through.

It’s not trying too hard,
It’s finding that release,
It’s taking it yard by yard,
It’s my own personal peace.

It’s the joy to reminisce,
It is its own bliss,
It’s acknowledging this, 

It just is…