A Poem for A Song Called 'Sense of Style'

"That rug really tied the room together, did it not?"---Walter Sobchak, The Big Lebowski

I'll sit here, but I won't be near
I listen close, but I won't hear
In a room for a bit, but it's too intricate
Lines so delicate, their lies deliberate

Did you buy this?
Is it a torture kit?
Did you consider that
I might truly be sick?

I'll look at you, but I won't be the room
Bright-colored gloom, that laughs at me & you
A view askance, to this postmodern dance
No, this furniture, wasn't put here by chance

So you are a knife
Twisted deep inside
And my soul can't survive
Your sense of style

To Restrain True Sorrow

Suffering exists
Not in contrived TV commercials
That swell with emotional music
And bloat the compassionate ego
Suffering exists
In the heart closest to yours
Where pains are locked up tight
Like a secret inheritance
Suffering exists
Caused by the withheld smile
The forced conversation
Naked words of obligatory sympathy
Suffering exists
To mock good intentions
To restrain true sorrow
To hold out hope just beyond your grasp
Suffering exists
In the quietest places of the soul
In the unacknowledged doubt
In the monotony of disconnected labors
As so we suffer
To avoid the embrace of our sorrow
To subvert what we would do...
To slaughter the human will
We suffer ourselves
We suffer our lives
We suffer our illusions of both
And hold our breath
Unless a delicate sigh once released
Should topple this house of cards
And lay bare the wounds
Inflicted by the tick of the clock
The shaky foundations of our world
Carefully insulating us
From the madness of reality
Yes, suffering exists
But don't tell anyone.