Composure

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One pull of a string collapses everything
Held together by sheer mental pressure
keeping one’s composure in the throes of a scene

A room full of people; all thoughts contagious
Their influence sets to ruin
Don’t underestimate the mob determining

It’s pure love to not need them. You can’t prove love to the demons

Run from the crowd of people
where they lack the sense to deliberate
as they fall over their own cast-asides and throw aways
Willingness to inflict
Ignorance sounds so certain
Break away from all the tearing down and their obligations to participate

It’s pure love to not need them. You can’t prove love to the demons

Stay in my nightgown for days
In the mode of dress, I can take
advantage of my own space; the privilege to create
No extra strings from their pull
binding me together
When the pressure mounts, I can fall asleep

Whom amongst us doesn’t want to be built up
but all the hangers-on will leave you hanging
Another person’s backbone as spineless as a wishbone
You may as well come out swinging

It’s pure love to not need them. You can’t prove love to the demons

-Brocka, 5-25-20

I wrote this poem/melody at the beginning of Covid and was reminded of it recently. What are we doing to ourselves? What’s the end result? Reactionary behavior is never thought-through. The pendulum will continue swinging between extremes until a middle ground is reached; or not. Both sides have lost sight of true priorities. Again, I wonder, what is the end result of all this? Certainly not utopia.

Helene Schjerfbeck, Self-portrait with Red Spot, 1944, Ateneum, Helsinki, Finland.
BrockaComposure

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