I don’t mean what
you think I mean
when you think
I intentionally mean
what you think
my words would mean.
What are words but
meaningless symbols that
have meanings only
when two souls
agreed to each other.
What is language
but a mere façade
of mankind’s endless
need to complain.
Often, at times,
my stupid mouth
spits out words
that might imply
something derogatory to
the object who suffers
my (tongue’s) action.
But deep down,
if their subtlety
is looked into,
they’re a mere subterfuges
where I try to
conceal the finer nuances,
so that one might
not think that I’m blandishing
with a flattered mockery.
I don’t know what that
freakin’ French philosopher
Derrida tries to prove with
his deconstruction theory.
But something is clear—
he’s trying to tell us
that what we think
is the meaning of meaning
is just a perpetual loop
that ultimately means
meaning of meaning.
Oh! Sometimes I feel like
I get photosynthesised
just because I feel
some words are trying
to be trapped inside
my thoughts, like the
process being involved
in plants trying to make
glucose out of sunlight.
And why glucose!
Can’t we just say sweet?
You haven’t texted
since last . . . And
our conversation ended
with rage like a
beehive being catapulted.
I kind of reaffirm
myself that somehow
I’ve become a miscreant
in your eyes. But what
does it matter anyway?
When you think that
I mean something
I’ve never intended to mean.
Twisted is the soul
that can’t be bent.
Foolish is the one
that never compromise.
I’m sick and tired and dying,
can’t you see?
Well, I’m just beating
around the bush,
you won’t believe my
‘says’ anyways.
Wherever you are
& whatever you
might be doing
I hope you are fine
& be able to sleep tight.
Like those times
You told me you were
having an acute insomnia
but always dozed off
at the first hour
while we were chatting
& only a blue tick that
always reminded me:
I too need to hit the hay.
Seiji Scribbles 