Past Poetic Angst

In hunting down the last angsty poem that I posted, I reread this one. Of the poems that I wrote back then, and there weren't many, this one is my favourite. It still transports me back to that place and into those nerves. Nothing much has really changed on the nerves score, so it is not to hard to slip back into that mindset, I suppose.

The Guy at the Picadilly

A glance, he is looking into me.
The look, just a second,
I pull away, he is looking into me.
He throws me a rope,
Does he?
I don’t know, is he looking at me?
Yes.
Too long I can’t take it, what does he look like?
He is looking at me, I can’t see him,
The blue black tracksuit, the hockey cap,
He is looking at me, I can’t see him,
I burn inside.
Passion? Fear? Nerves? Longing?
Can he see my soul? Does he share my desires?
He is looking into me.
My Uncle; the real world speaks to me,
Pragmatisim, this is not the time.
But he is looking at me and my soul shakes.
We are walking, the real world and I,
I can look at him, he is beautiful and we step towards him.
If we were alone...
I look into him, I touch the rope- How I want to grasp it,
I see him, he sees me, does he know me?
Does he want to?
We move towards him,
The rope, I haven’t let go, would he stop me from drowning?
We are passing, it is finishing- a brush in a crowded cinema.
I burn inside.
We are passing, the moment lingers,
I look away, does he still look up?
I want to feel his breath on me, skin.
Have I stopped? Take me please,
Touch me, be real for me, I need you.
The cold night air, rain,
I smolder as the scene replays in my mind.
I shiver, adrenaline.
I glance back is he still looking?
He is gone. Questions.
Could you see my soul? Do you feel this?
I smolder inside, I need a fire.
Be real to me.

Tags: poetry, coming out, gay