As my cauldron boils

It's all the same
and i'm crossing the third bank
of the river again.
what i can see from here
are blurred faces, cliches
and rusty kindness.
(that includes you too!
the smoke is covering your eyes)

i enjoy myself
as he repeats the same questions.
i have new answers though.
sometimes i wonder
what moves people
or if anything moves them at all.

it is good to be poetically maladjusted:
we are nice psychos
or maybe it is necessary
to be a neurotic to face
the insult of living.

(he tried to anchor me
to the material world.
but what are words?
nothing.
the wind blew them away.)

it is tiring
and i'm not willing to be vulnerable.
i will contemplate the scene as i analize
what is beneath your hands.
meanwhile, don't trust me
because i won't trust you
no matter how comfortable
you try to make me feel.

Karla Bardanza
http://karlabardanzapoems.blogspot.com
http://skycladatmidnight.tumblr.com
http://poeticpostcards.blogspot.com