To speak of...

Let me unveil the source of my presupposition
Here, devour this... a side dish
Garnished with stale contrition

Watch me as I disarm myself
Presented, plattered up for you
You’re welcomed to feast upon my rendition
Recurring choice of self indulgent volition
Regurgitated, time and again
Insurgent epiphany, I feel it wax and wane...

You see... regrettably, I see through your suppositions,
Your visions, your subsequent propositions
Your assumptions, and your deductions
Implicitly, your statements
Betray something in of themselves
Exposing unacknowledged truths from subconscious realms
They reveal something about you which your admissions belie
I will not deny
I cannot know for sure
What it is that they imply
But I know that they allude to dreams,
Those which are not your own
I have no faith in your authenticity
But I’ve met you before, so it must be me
A different face, the same case
This, the source, to which I alluded in first verse
The illusions I set out initially to disperse.

Convoluted poetic discourse
A cowardly choice, an indirect recourse
Honestly I set out with a purpose - to elucidate.
Make clear what I think of you and your opinions of my opinions of myself.

I offered fuel for the fire
Planned to tie myself to the pyre
Predictable of me and my proclivity to self depreciate
The reasoning? I’ve long since ceased to ruminate.
Still, as I said, I set out with hopes to emancipate
Simplify things through full disclosure

This circumlocution, my only solution
A path of avoidance, a crafted volution
But can you see these words, see how they smother
Attempts to confront turn to dashes for cover.

A vocabulary - ambiguous in its goals
I allow precious words, conflicting roles
A rhyming word can justify the expression of the absurd
Backtrack and question, what it is that you’ve heard
Marvel at how uncomplicated statements can diffuse and diverge
Indulge in the dictionary, splash out, splurge.

But oh, these words
These liberating submissions
Voice to the thoughts, words to the visions
They render my crackling sentiments inert
Yet I find no direct way to speak of the hurt.

By Imbi Johnston