Oak table and candle light and scented parchment natural white,
I lay this thought in poem
The fabric I am is gone and torn, missing somewhere along the storm, the winds have extracted my soul and core,
And here I am at home.
Cans and bags and paper scraps, remote controls and textbook backs strewn around the room, the facts jumbled and mixed in tone.
Diluted with gallons, or pounds of space, I'm barely able to keep my face, my personality, there's not a trace,
I'm posed with the question of where I've gone.
Distracted by this the world passes, Attention span is broken spastic, Quick to glitch are my social stances,
I guess at responses and know I'm wrong.
Acquaintances, Friends, and social lives tend to notice this surprise of my pretending to be who I,
Have always been like all along.
Perhaps a person has stolen my soul,
A demon or devil has broken my whole,
The God of existence requires a toll,
I'm gone. Gone. Delirious and cold.
I remember feelings, I recall my emotions, I remember my faces and my exuberant motions, I remember the dances of light on the ocean and Cuban cigars, illegal and smoke'n.
It seems that the invisible reason to live.
The one that remained alive and within.
The life of the life of the body I'm in...
Disappeared more and now doesn't exist.
Some have referred to it as a disorder,
Others ignore it and tend to more forward,
Many have noticed it,
Few have afforded..
So here I am stuck deep in thought the waves turn over and wind is sought by sails to boats and I am not,
But floating is how I'd describe me.
My eyes look out with no attention the focus has tangled itself in my retention, the memories of feeling and actions to mention,
I know who I am, so abiding.
However, the days that I've found of my life are Immense. The actions and words and the fabric intense. Words just cannot convey all of this,
So its hard to prove without lying.
Despite all the forces suggesting a crime,
The impossible actions of others in mind,
The hints at myself so deceived rendered blind,
I proceed to inform you, the work is all mine.
I've created a circus to hide the destruction.
Mistakes that I've made go unsolved by correction.
A process of deeds that emit imperfection,
This lack of myself, is my own interruption.
The use of a substance, created a storm. The loss of my future, my family, more.
The one that I was,
And the one is no more.
The pieces have payed all the fines that I stored.
Unpaid as they went,
The riddle was growing.
Others confused with me in the knowing.
Seems it to be I was evil and glowing were embers of others belongings and owning's.
Currency short, And disarray wide, The public pursued all the personal's id collected through time and through space, on the side, they found what I'd grown in my body... my life.
To teach me a moral, and gain me a value, they took what it took to learn both of them as you can guess my life's at arrest in the wake of this massive event that took place before present.
I must proceed as an empty container.
Nothing good or attractive at all.
Completely empty and void of life.
I live the one I have,