Practice forgetting.

There are some things
which should be forgotten.

The poems we write are being
consigned to the internet's depth
where the data does not express the

semantic intent. As for this poem penned
by the user Mydriasis [real name unknown],
This too will go, it'll pass on, fade out; because
everything is an echo.

A figure from my past
didn't recognize me,
And I didn't say anything.

My time is almost up, I long
to live in the 808 State.
Perhaps someday I will,
Or I may just find Death in Vegas.

What does it mean
to "...remove the issue of skill,
and replace it with the issue of judgement"?
What does it say
when a machine outstrips the human?

I find myself rationalizing
this creature's evolution.
Should I have said something?

Surely, but to what end?
I fear failure, yet I understand
its necessity. The pain of a paradox
so wondrous.

A buried chest full of forgotten anxiety, what a treasure.
As for the map herself, I'll burn that bridge when I come to it.

For awhile I blamed my brain, and I tried all manner of things
to adjust its delicate balance of neuroelectrochemical readiness;
But I learned to recognize
less is more. Nevertheless,
My experiences left me with a strange ache in my soul
and a passion that keeps me asking questions

about existence, and whether I will
return to the compounds
I once cherished.
Whether
I am well enough
or simply brave enough.
Whether I will be content to study
the things I love without
holding them in
my skull.
Why should the psychedelic
renaissance be restricted to the sciences,
Why should it be distanced from the humanities?

We need a fair psychology of hallucinogenesis; we deserve
a better philosophy of psychedelia, and of psychoactivity.

Is it too much to ask; does this dream of mine make you laugh?
What about when I write that the downfall of philosophy is
its disdain of poetry, and that the failures of science stem
from its inability to reconcile with the humanities.
Emotion and reason can only listen to each other when
they are on level. Mind is not in the head, the soul is ecological

and humanity is losing touch.

The world that goes on around us
sometimes flows right past me
and the notions that grip
you and I, the motions
we go through every time
the creatures behind our eyes
meet; mutual experience, a moment

for that inner-child of ours
to shine through
and go wandering
out into the world together,

As best friends do.

What else is there to write, what else
is there? I can't imagine being together
without the fear of being torn apart.
I'm afraid it'll fall to pieces
so I embrace being alone.

I have to believe it's never too late.
I remember the kid, before the scars.
I hope to stay with this thought,

I wish I could stay with you.

After living a life in praise of sessioning
I'm left with an amalgamation of memories,
A blur of nights had and days that merge into
one; and I wonder whether I cradle that memory
too deeply, isn't it what I am‽
I remember thinking its infinity
so long ago, tripping into eternity,
Feeling a moment engulf the universe
in knowing I am free to remember this
anytime, anywhere. I worry about
whether a life spent sessioning
is for me, if these memories
aren't beyond me, and if
this questioning only
makes the present
burn as slowly.
Can anybody see the past within me‽
Cyan is the new white, and this prison
is finally comfortable. At last, I smell that stone ichor
as the rain brings it home; left memory, right alone.

A month ago I put down the keyboard
and after a week I picked up the pen. I had to write

to spite my worries that

knowledge had become cheap; wisdom, scarce; and
truth, a fool's errand. Cynical words
from a man trying to let go
that sardonicism and
embrace his vulnerabilities.
Will the courage to let the verse
flow from the human, onto the page
where it may be subject to another human's saccades.

That summer glow is on the horizon
and in the humid night air
I'm here trying
to learn to speak, not to spit
verses
but to utter truths. Trying to
find my voice without losing myself.
So here's what went down between me and
myself as we looked upon the town.

I spoke into the glimmer of its lights
and told it my deepest fears
and most tenuous hopes
and I let my feelings
flow forth as my voice
made quiet my mind.
I uttered a few words as
if they might make a man
realise who I am, and I had a moment
or two before I asked myself what'd become of my time.
I saw myself sitting in a room, all day
for many months, years,
A lifetime,

And thought to myself what a waste
and wished my voice was clear, confident, lucid
and longed for the authenticity and courage I'd stifled
and wanted my mind to be together, smooth, whole
and begged for the strength to make it through the months
and remembered those aimless summers past, lethargy
and apathy with a sentiment that almost bordered on fondness
and wondered at that trick: how wrong it is
to be wistful when memory is so selective.
Better to look to the future
with sincere notions of adventure
and convictions on how to regain one's
soul;