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Today I decided you would be:
just a memory.
Not a dream I will see, whenever I look forward.
Not a regret that haunts me, when I look back,
Simply a memory;
not a weight to be shouldered.
I have picked up the pieces; I'm overall intact.
carry on luggage: one I'll, soon, unpack.
Letting go of an unesssary situaion
Rain, rain, don't go away;  haven't been promised another day.
Wisdom with age
‪petty and selfish,‬
‪The path to peace, no recourse.‬
‪I have no remorse.‬
I'm aware it's a petty precarious peace... but peace none the less especially when she stays out of reach.
Why stay: absentee?
Why return; to leave again?
Keep the peace: away.
I play with the switch‬
‪turns the light on and off‬,
‪The shine; my soul‬
Apathy
A weeds confidence.
A heart; strong as a boulder
mind clear like a stream
I make myself so happy for no reason then stick my own back,
melancholic acts of treason, cut and measure my own lesions;
a line between pleasure and pleasing.
Not an pessimist nor a type of optimist but a realist who has mastered the execution of delusion and illusion.
Oxymoronic, Guess I'm just human;

Apparently the semblance of a god,
so making something from nothing isn't odd,
but I was given everything from a soul to my bones, hair to my toes;
Even to me who stays in this, sinew and ivory, home the reason is unknown but I know the weight of this form has its toll.

Ties made are rarly cut
more than the material is used,
bonds spirt imbued,
that which feeds hate and love.
My soul is the ocean my form the soil my mind the heavens so it's wisdom guides the toil.
What I put on to my body will seep to the sea, be it poisons or ointments that is to be seen, my wish for foresight seems obscene,
a noxious tint colors the scene
Ah this is but a show, how else can I explain the tragedies sown.

Who wrote this play?
No
Who paid its commission,
who conscripted us to suffer, no need for permission, no fine print played off as a simple omission?
Actors with no access to backstage
so it is do or die,
freedom in a cage,
the 4th wall blocks our eyes.
we get no reactions for our performance
no real feedback,
so we face our troupe like opponents, for no real reason.
Whilst some seem to flourish in a limelight others perish in darkness
some disappear through trap doors others fly with out harness.

seasoned thespians sometimes show us a way; how to perform our parts, from when they entered the play.
We are told there is a script, so I would say some have forgotten thier lines
but honestly the script has never passed these eyes,
all I know is that somes voices are drowned out by the soundtracks of anxiety and sadness;
The polyrhythms of fear and deafening sound of loneliness and madness
How could the director have this?

That's the purpose of a tragedy; make the watcher feel like they are living lavishly.

Wanted a reason why I find it so tragic.

In the words of Life 'There, you have it.'
Slam tracscribed. I've been reading some tragedies and re-realized that fact can be truly worse than fiction
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