FML

Is there actually a reason I keep writing about love?
Songs that speak about futility
And poems that speak of insecurity.
Maybe I am in love
with the idea of love.
A distant dream
never fulfilled,
kept awakened by hope
and a mess of a life
that seeks to find solace
in fiction.
It's what other human beings would term as hopeless
the kind of endearment found in bygone tales.
Yet here I am,
living one of those tales,
seeking closure of some sort
hanging on by the slimmest of threads.
I don't know her anymore.
I don't know myself anymore.
But I know the idea of love exists somewhere,
I'm hooked to its enchanted arms.
It leads nowhere,
It doesn't have any of  the other worldly charms.
It leaves me broken and sorrowful.
That I could never be the man,
who was the right one in her eyes.
I was different.
She was different.
There were no points for similarity.
Not that there was any,
and that was important,
that decided,
if feelings were scarce,
or if feelings clashed somewhere.
Now it's been years
that I am in love
with the idea of love.
No other woman spoke to my soul
about singularities
and unions of people.
All I am good at now is being terrible at life,

Displacement

Displacement of the body
Displacement of the soul
Displacement of feelings
Displacement of the fact
that it takes a few years
to grow old.

Displacement of anxiety
Displacement of demeanor
Displacement of attachments
Displacement of  fears
that would at one time
make you cower.

Displacement of clothes,
shoes, computers,phones,
TVs, CDs,video games,
books, vehicles and everything material.
Displacement of trees,
sunlight, rain, air, politics,
druglords, religion,
love,notions and everything immaterial.

Displacement leaves gaps
Unfilled and unattended.
Gaping gaps in places
clock hands cannot point to anymore.
I can just visit the edges of the gaps and look into them.
I can make out the faces and gestures swim in its dark pool .
But I can't jump in,
there are mandates surrounding it,
it's not feasible territory anymore.

Displacement is vicious-
Almost primitive in nature.
A deadly predator of sorts
Unbecoming to behold,
Knives hidden under layers
of smooth promise, ageless laughter,
consistent contentment, sobriety
pitted with secrets never to be disclosed.

I was never able to recognize
this dark side that silently plotted
its own curve for my life.     
To me, displacement was freedom,
A new world far from watchful eyes
and ears that fed on the grains of my life;
far from social soreness and known visages,
A mountain that I needed to climb.