One Odd Man

I am an odd kind of man…
With the most common of manes,
The fibrous strands of blackened filaments. 
That are as rigid as a bundle of spines,
Or as soft the pillow you slumber with.
Quite often held in place,
Or brimming the edge of my eyes;
Eyes tinted with such amassed hazel warmth.
And within them,
The strangest of oddities float amok.
Those little creatures,
Called love,
Euphoria
Bitterness
Anger
Melancholy
Tearing my insides apart,
Through a black and white, vintage filter.

I am an odd kind of man…
With flesh marked by foreign hand and stick.
Modified through threads and scars,
With every tale I’ve come to spin between my fingers.
And so one after another,
A new man is bred.
All whom find luxurious lodging,
Within the lobes of my mind.
These dear mental critters of mine,
The strays of my imagination,
Exist only to wander this bodily wreckage,
As shattered and incomplete as it may be.
All in the attempt to alleviate my solitude.

I am an odd kind of man…
With vastness in creativity,
Far too wide and high and far,
To be captured in a few notebooks.
Nor be drawn out by even the most modern of dialects.
Nor be conceived by logic thought.
In that matter misunderstood,
By all concepts of logical expression,
Trying to seduce and ravage my words.
So until the lead in my pencil,
Erodes into the shadow-less, un-squinting lines.
Until the ink in my pen,
Thins into the nothingness of paper,
Swallowed by its pristine whiteness.
And hence their purpose expires…
The blood in my veins,
Every drop of it will do.
It’s just enough to satisfy this...
Unorthodox yet heavenly impulse.

I am an odd kind of man…
Quite the open book.
Written in some sort of tangled dialect,
That even I come to misread.
Another grand mystery,
Even to myself.
A man with anarchic sensibilities,
And particular oaths etched in permanency.
Unbeknownst,
Even to the fictitious persona of gods.
An oath in particular,
That sinks the shoulders.
That blood shots the mortal eye.
Shatters mortal bone.
Gnaws the seams,
Keeping the human crease as one.
One that chews and spits you out,
To ultimately break you.
To taint everything else that may remain untouched,
In whatever may be left of you.

I am an odd kind of man…
Kind yet hostile.
Gentle yet rough.
Some sort of scarce one in fact.
So I have been told…
But if you are to decipher,
The language under all this irrelevance.
The scribble all over my skin…
Please recite them to me,
The stories of this odd man,
Whose nature I wish to comprehend. 
Every stray critter stagnating within these concave bone walls of mine,
Have woven threads of their own.
Threads that throb in sync to my vitals… 
Within the smallest strands of limb.
Their senses heightening my own.
Their thoughts,
Stab into my wandering mind.
As they manage to coerce,
Through simple threads,
With my own.

Oh boy…
I guess I really am,
One odd man…
Aren’t I?