Bend


I’ve chosen not to speak
So that I never need to hope or act surprised
Or reassess, by days and weeks
The “what” I said, the “hows and whys”
The meanings as interpreted
Or if a single word I said
Was seen and just unworthy of reply

I’ve chosen not to move
So that I never need to possibly believe
There’ll be a way that doesn’t lose
The very thing I can’t retrieve
The yesterday that wasn’t real
It’s like a wound that doesn’t heal
And words are still the cure I don’t receive

I’ve chosen not to look
So that I never need to see if it’s the end
Or if the very road I took
Was but a dream that I pretend
Was leading up and far away
Instead of down to hear you say
“You’ll break before I ever choose to bend”

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Culling


It would be a lie if I tried to say that I write “only for myself”.

In fact, I dare say that most people who write and share their writing on some level do not write exclusively “for themselves”.

Perhaps you, my dear reader, are someone who shall now attest that you do, in fact, write only for yourself and to hell with likes, shares, follows, and views. And if you are truly honest in this proclamation, then congratulations. You are an anomaly. You are unique. You are rare. You are a unicorn.

For most, however, there is some intrinsic desire to see numbers increase, to feel as though more people are reading what we write, and that they do so because they legitimately enjoy what we’re writing about…or at least the way in which we write about those things.

That being said, it is difficult to honestly gauge our reach, our level of connection. It’s difficult to tell who reads what, for what reason they read, and to what degree they like, or even if they actually care. We are given crude numbers that end up being this mercurial element which is tangent to all the numbers we’re given.

The actual connection between these numbers, however, is vague and the truth of those values debateable.

This leads us to the actual point of this post. Culling.

As of today, I’ve done two cullings of my followers.

The way I do this is as follows: I go through the last 10 posts or 10 days (whichever is longer) and I record the name of every like I got. I then go through my list of followers and redact anyone who hasn’t liked anything I wrote over that given span of posts or time.

First time, I went from approximately 430+ followers down to 48.

Think about that.

430 people were supposedly following me, but of them, less than 50 had made even the most tenuous of interactions with my posts. That’s a little over 11%.

Now, some people might say, “But perhaps a lot of them were reading, but they just don’t click like.”

This is true. But the problem with that logic is that, when I removed the better part of 400 followers, my stats didn’t change enough to substantiate the claim that almost any of them were just “passive viewers”.

Today, I completed my second culling. I went from 283 down to 105, and I suspect I will see the same overall effect. I suspect I will get the same sort of views and likes because, generally speaking, the same core group of people like what I post. Other people like and follow, and then disappear. More to point, it gives me a more accurate depiction of how many people might actually be looking at what I post rather than just giving me the total number of people who clicked on the “follow” button.

So, how about the rest of you?

Do you sometimes trim your following?

Do you let the idle followers stay on board for the sake of “well, they’re not hurting anything…”?

Feel free to share your thoughts. I always like talking numbers, percentages, and statistics. 🤓

Bind


Bind my hands and spirit like a pill
Ask of me without remorse
And, “Yes,” say I, “my dear, of course.
I’m yours.” I’ve always said…
I always will

Bind me like a tongue between your teeth
Ask of me the very sun
And, “Yes,” say I, “it shall be done”
And made, for you, a bed
Of clouds beneath.”

Bind me like a promise to your throat
Ask of me a moment true
And “All that’s good in me is you,”
Say I with bowing head
In somber notes

Bind my very logic with a kiss
Ask of me what I adore
And, “Dear,” say I, “You matter more
Than any word I’ve said
Or any wish.”

Correspondence


When I look your way, you seem to disappear
Smoke behind a looking glass
And though I feel, with certainty, I’m capable of looking past
The little flecks of dreams denied
Behind the you I deemed implied
The vision that I see is never truly crystal clear

When I see your face, it’s not the one I knew
Lips a very different shade
A smile of decisions and of choices that you swiftly made
A secret that you kept inside
And made of tears you never cried
I seem to only ever truly see the sun in you

When I try to hear your voice, it seems to fade
Tone and timbre twisted out
And heard as if a sermon offered sweetly from your lips devout
As if a leading hand, or guide
For you, the moon, and I the tide
An ocean made of us that we could never dream to wade

When I say your name, it’s with a jilted sigh
Broken into small degrees
And nothing like the words that, once upon a time, I called with ease
A signature of “Well, I tried…”
But ink within the well has dried
And faded are the letters kept,
And all of them are missing your reply

Caught


I wonder if it slips
The fragile mask of you
That scale of two
Where weights are always shifting
And the parting of your lips
Are but the pieces left when sifting
Through the wreckage of the ships
You left behind when sailing through
A sea I see was never blue
And never new

I painted scenes of woe
On canvases of trust
Without a brush
In shades forever showing
Me the colors left below
But never ever truly knowing
If I see what isn’t so
Beneath the edges of disgust
For there’s so much left undiscussed
If only just

I wonder why I wait
As if, just like the sun
You’ll simply come
To me, with fears abating
With a key for every gate
And with a smile, simply stating
It was all a big mistake
And that I didn’t see you run
From what I am and what I’ve done
And have become

But here I seem to stay
Like canvases forgot
An item bought
And left here slowly graying
In your attic, tucked away
And on my knees, forever praying
Maybe this’ll be the day
But then we both know that it’s not
I’m just a fly the spider sought
And cruelly caught

Compile


Let me grow a garden just for you
Filled to overflowing with the loops of while do
Lush binary trees
With Fibonacci number leaves
That ever grow within the parametric logic while(true)

Let me put my heart into arrays
Strings of hexadecimal a console can display
Held within a try
Above a catch that could deny
With an exception given by the words you speak but never say

Let me turn my words into a sum
Hide my failing zeroes and confess you are the one
Override the switch
Delete the cases that exist
For my default condition without you is equivalent to none

Let me parse the words I’ve thus implied
Disregard exceptions where the code would not abide
Seeing, in them, you
The fragile threads created new
For when you left the way you did, my heart, by zero, did divide

Impetus


In the tide of thought replete
I find I ought delete
The parts I see are not complete
So in conceit
Do I compete
For any end but my defeat

There but do I see before
The facts that I ignore
A set of tracks I won’t explore
As if a door
Beyond a moor
And see not, I, a reason for

Traveling to such a place
As if it were a race
But there is no reward to chase
And so my pace
Is lacking haste
For I see nothing there but waste

So do I, in darker thought
Inquire what I’ve wrought
And why I ever even fought
For what I sought
I soon forgot
And reasons why – I found them not