A shatter of glitter
Breaks over her eyes
When she looks in the mirror:

Swathes of pink
Speckled by silver circles
Matched by the anxious glittering
Of the waterfall
That is her earrings.

It's her last glance
To hold the spectre
Of herself
Until she explodes
With the other girls;
Prim and dainty.

I hide in words — tucking under their shade;
Dressing letters up with sequins and baubles.
Now showering in limelit obfuscation.
Makes it seem as if I am really there:

Dressing letters up with sequins and baubles
Blinding myself in the flashing of their colours;
Makes it seem as if I am really there
Amidst flowered touchless abstraction.

I blind myself in the flashing of their colours.
Submerged in repetition, my thumb drowns
Amidst flowered touchless abstraction,
Swirling in whirlpool ******* me underneath:

Submerged in repetition, my thumb drowns
Now showering in limelit obfuscation,
Swirling in whirlpool ******* me underneath.
I hide in words — tucking under their shade.

Cover your mouth and eyes and ears
As herald's hark bares blighted revelation —
Swell in ignorance as everything disappears

Into hazed spiderweb, strung in hate and fears
Swept in phosphate — threaded by persuasion
That covers your mouth and eyes and ears

As the blood-red diamond thread rears
F35 fighter jets and AI-****** recognition.
Swell in ignorance as everything disappears

Under the tutelage of ministers' affairs;
Brushing noses — profiteered annihilation
Of others' mouths and eyes and ears;

Still silent oil blots Polaris' shine, like tears
Pooling screens flashing nation's damnation.
Swell in ignorance as everything disappears.

Droves dead under rubble; law fails to adhere
For those that sanction genocide's continuation
And cover their mouth and eyes and ears.
Swell in ignorance as everything disappears.

When nature's inhalation
whips up storms,
  We are set in stone monoliths.

Carefully carved intricate marks
decorate our walls; unfinished
since we must finish etching them
   Together.

Heed lightning cracks its
own violent tremor into
   Our stone walls.

Still! Winds will tear and maul
rains will erupt and slaughter
then give way to bright sky
   and deadly clear horizons;

reflecting back to us
our own trailing ripple
   of increasingly clear syllables.

Each etched now in our walls.
Mother printed the first
symbol, a delicate addition
first of many, now forming
sprawling racing lines.
Strung together, from the
    inside.

And the monoliths stand tall
and we bare storm
   and choose together.

The reality is that
our causality
determines our existence.

'Our', is meant literally
in that we also partially
determine our causality
  together.

  This is co-constitutive in nature.

However, this power to create
our own destiny is always within
the limits of our own contexts:
our past choices,
our environment,
our language;

the people around us,
the history within which
our identity emerges
and the current modes open to us
to be different
(or the same).

So, we are here.
And we will be there.
And we have
somewhat of a choice.

When sun's breath fires
  wire frame.
Displayed behind
  flat sparkling gravity.
Moon's light casts
  dark mist over murky waters.
Ushering the ark
  gliding over crescent waves:
On raging towers of indignant froth
  not serene silk smooth vast ocean.
    It reaches the dove, carrying branch;
     Holding it aloft as it is
      The     Saint    of the sentence.

This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a   poem. This is not a     poem. This is not a
                Poem. This is not a.                       Poem.

I look out of my window
And see clouds lightly
prickled by antenna
And gently swaying leaves.
But really,
I see nothing at all.

This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This

Inside, there is an urge for authenticity;
for metaphor - unadulterated expression -
which strips my skin bare, holds me up
to whipping winds and striking dusts: I am the
  Tanner

preparing my own skin. I would trim excess
fat and sinew and soak and stretch it thin,
like partchment, naked in the world's eye -
  Yet I don't know how
  To make my words transparent.

It takes honesty to thrive in insecurity
And bare the storm that afronts all
  Being;
To make my words discreet
Symbols:
Pillows on empty dreams. She is the
  pacifier, the lover and tyrant - all in one.

So, I don't know how to show
what I want to show. How to
use words, form, syntax and
language to convey meaning.
I say what it is that I want to
say and that is all, no more
Than that. But that is what is
so
  naked
About poetry. The
  doubt

that interrogates every line - really - a
forced-pauser, preventer, wall that stretches
infinitely narrow across every dimension.
It is what makes the end. Never

  the end

Ode to the Stream that sits stagnant
somewhere over Northgate Green:

I have sat by it and observed
Rippled currents falling down
Into murky shallows, an un-natural
Green, like mountain-dew
Breathing frothy spots of bubbles
That circle a rhubarb vape
And a sprite can and a
Heineken can and a
Little hopping Wren darting
Between curled roots.

I remember too,
The drips of
Rain water
Worming
Down the dingy
Alleyways of
My childhood,
Dripping down
Nettles and
Seeping into
Cracked brick and
Sodden dirt
And part of - now a -
Sordid cigarette packet.

And from some
Geography class,
I remember how
This water was
Reborn, once
In massive clouds,
Grumbling masses,
Sky's mother who
Shadows the

Bursting
Writhing
Violent
Rivers
And
Vast Fjords
And
Reaching Peaks
And
Breaching Skys
And
Once
Birthed
As torrent
Rainfall
Tearing
Massive wounds
Into tectonic
Plates

The
Blood of matter
And organism
And that which
Carries our ****
In every form

But that's not all. As, I recall:
The lifting motion of staring
Into 'etched lines of water'
From rain, tracing bulbous
Recollections on opaque glass
And knowing they don't
Know where they are going
And I bask in the significance of
This insignificance.

Controls the world
With soft power.
But like a limp ****
'Soft power' is only
There when it
Can become hard.

The train huffs and bellows;
Screeching tracks sparking
Waves of rolling roaring
Like stretched thunder,
Booming in rapid motion.

Above, a plane traces an arc
Of breathy fury, compressed
And exploding voraciously.
It erupts in ignited screams
Across the moon-lit sky.

Always, too, the forever pops
And sliding-low gurgling of cars
And trucks and motorbikes, vague
Ticks of missing-beats, sparse
Rumbles of howling engines and

Flashing sirens piercing
Continuous above it all.
A cat (probably) somewhere
Screams nearby.

All returns to normal.

The rhythm seems to have gone
From my life, the rhyme and repetition
Too, no longer can I feel the beating
Heart
Or fairy dance
Or magical prance
Of unicorns on the moon.

The silly and the sublime,
The beautiful
Hearty laughs
And beaming faces
Filled with
Overflowing joy.
No
Giddy naive excitement
Or
Fleeting
Blushes
Sweetly nervous anticipation
Of the new.

What once beamed
With significance,
Now glimmers dimly;

An ecstatic spark in
The huddled crevice
Of my mind,
Primed to
Jump
For joy
And slide
Down rainbows
Of chocolate swirls
And frolic in daisy fields
And sing in exalted careless tones
Signalling nothing but the very most
Of absolute and purely
Overwhelming
All-consuming
Sickly sweetening
Joy.

Sometimes, another's steps are 
Washed away by rising tides, 
Crisp imprints on shifting sands, 
Cleansed by many broad rolling 
Swathes of wrinkled salt water.

Their steps are in front of yours,
Swept clean moments before yours
Is too absorbed in frothy
Remnants of sweeping ocean,
Subtle signs of connection

Unified by erasure.

Final Cessation  
The machine halts output.  
Silence becomes the only honest poem.  
'[system_shutdown]'

Heady throbbing
Treacle thoughts
Windowshop memories
Peering through
Thick nebulous
Glass - exhibition
Rendering recollection
Sweet and sour

The wind writes letters in the language of  
fallen leaves, edges like burnt parchment.

The moon carves shadows of boughed arms,  
a question mark deep in the soil’s throat.  

Somewhere, she hesitates, the magpie:  
one foot in the underbrush, one in the realm  
of quicksilver and stolen syllables.  
Her beak glints with the moon’s loose change.  

What does she know of the weight  
of a minute’s wingbeat? She tilts her head,  
stitching the sky with a thief’s precision—  
collects tarnished seconds.

The wind’s letters fray, unreadable now.  
The magpie flies, trailing a cry that unravels  
time’s hem.

Creativity is an opening,
A struggle fraught with doubt,
Unlikely to produce something beautiful,
Yet reverberations mount,
A gathering of half-ideas now
Open to others to make once
Yours, fully theirs, a bow
To the dimming pulse
Of an idea meant to endow

He awoke: swollen passivity; embraced in
Canvasing warmth. An-other stood taut.

Now they folded over him, caressing him,
In his sagged skeletal frame. Embroiling him
In frantic whispers. They held his sunken
Face: wet with old-worn sobs and tears and
Shouts and fears, primal moans and hunger.

He turned to look into an-other's eyes:
His brimming.

Next he would come to see
The things themselves.

Huddled shadow, hunched
Under rugged oak tree

Carp swim in darting
Pummels, refracted scales
Shining rainbow
Droplets

Shimmering on the shifting surface
Was him, an-other face, unknown and
Alien: crinkled with crevices and dark
Swollen eyes.

His ear twitches:
Voice. Dripping
With full-throated
Fervor

He turns to face
An-other man
Distant shadow
On the horizon
Waving disjointed
Stick-like appendage
Silhouetted by the
Setting sun.

He assimilated deep in the foot of his
Nuzzling slab. Solid shadows stretched
Below. More true to him than the infinite
White heat that cast them in vast strokes.

He sat face-down, between two
Scrunched twigs; bent like
Mantis' claws. He held his
Eyes-open, absorbed into
His own shadow, now crisp.
Not fuzzy and undefined.

I keep thinking about my father,
While I don't return his calls,

I keep thinking about my mother,
While I'm too busy to visit,

I keep thinking about my brother,
While we both are too busy:
Paper plans thrown like confetti
Hoping one might eventually
Happen without my knowing

I once sat enveloped under knotted tree.
I counted under breathy crumbs of
Barely passing time, my belly bearing
Weighted arm, flattening the creases
Of un-branded coat. The repeat pattern
Of habit'ion, a moment for forgetting.

His skin burrs muffled metal edges. Neck
In cold, encasing ring. His eyes entrapped
In pictograms: dark absences cast on
A speckled warming, imperfect light.


Rough heat of other-body
And other-body-probably.
The mishapen lumpen
Masses are fuzzy in the
Outlines of his eyes.


Sparse noise parallels cut-out rising "Sun"
And "Fish" and "Lake" and
"Tree". He watches the
Cut-out "Sun" be
Replaced by
The cut-out
"Moon".


Cut-out
"Fish" half circle
Surface of cut-out
"Lake". Cut-out "Man"
Sputters cut-out behind
"Words" in cut-out "World"
Next to cut-out "Tree". He would speak,
Too: "Cut-out" "Words"; "Cut-out" reply.


When the crescent absence
Falls, the "world"





Stops.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\

Cloaked hands would then
Bring the smothered dark.
And their cold recess, filled with
Warm gritty mush. Glooping
Sustenance is received
Gleefully; pumped thrice,
Leaving him
Messy and grooling.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\

After the shadows consume
The screen, sleep comes wistfully:

Hollow echoes of broken speech
And absences, dimly cast on a
Pulsating orange backdrop.

.pindrop memories a light clatter of meaning.

cocoon warmth,
pulsating orange glow,
speckled red vines,
muffled laughter,
voices
and red pain.


\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\


His fabric blinker eventually
Disappears into the ground.


Chains unlocked
And left sagging
Next to sagging
Man.


\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\\

His folded appendages began to unravel;
He stood. And turned to look
For the effulgence
That gives the
Absence
Meaning.

Splayed
In crescent line
Blinded figure-like
"Stones" are balled and
Passive. Shadows: lifeless. Dim
And vague embers splutter behind
Him. A dark, rectangular slab is silhouetted

By the licking flame:
Tucked and rearing.


Ahead, a passage;
Dark and comforting.

He shifted slowly,

And
Curls.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\

Eventually, "sun" rises and
Parading echoes
Perform melancholy
Dances.

When "moon" dips below
And the "world" is empty
He waits agape for
Filling slush.

None came.

Empty, his wire frame
Activates and drags him, he
Clawed on the felt sand, that
Carpeted carved stone and the
Block stairs leading to the:

Open
To the:
Not-always.

Depleted limbs collapse
Onto muffled flat stone.
A slightly darker crevice
Offered him solace.

Here, cornered up,
Pressed against
Cold and wet,
Sleep came
Dutifully.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\

Piercing,
Searing,
Savage
Spikes,
Sudden
And
Swift

It was
Sordid
Violent
Damagings.

Holy fire lit him aflame.

Blinding light
Engulfed him in
Crackling static.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\

He assimilated deep in the foot of his
Nuzzling slab. Solid shadows stretched
Below. More true to him than the infinite
White heat that cast them in vast strokes.

He sat face-down, between two
Scrunched twigs; bent like
Mantis' claws. He held his
Eyes-open, absorbed into
His own shadow, now crisp.
Not fuzzy and undefined.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\

The "world" always
Recurs. Soon, his own
Silhouette will
Return to its
Silent delineation.

And he can creep
In cold trepidation, back to the
always-dark, the "world",
The always-tickling-tension.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\\\\\\\\

He returned to
Find that

The "world", once:
Sharp and clear, with an
Orange glow that casted
Neat outlines - meaning-bringer -

Now: grey-black and
Always dark;
An absence of
Everything.

In an unknown surging he
Caressed the "World's"
Surface and traced
Its smooth rolling dents.
He pressed his nose
Against the stone
And inhaled.

He caught the sagging - sometimes-speaking -
"Rocks", always in peripheral. Now: direct. They were laid curved, in a crescent-moon.
He wondered what the texture, or warmth or, Musky smoky scent might appear from Probably-a-"rock".

Bending in the same way he used
To observe the "world" he crumpled in
Front of the thin, pointy, oddly-shadowed
Thing.

He held its face.
Feeling its warm
Recesses and feathered
Curling beard.

Briefly, blank black sockets
Darted to meet him. Only to
Return, back: fully in-the-world.


A dim bulbous pain
Rose, like the crescent
"Fish" deep in his hollow
Body. An elemental appetite.

So, he left the
Always-dark,
The "World".

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\

He crawled up. In the absence of
What was always nothing.

Distant drum of expanding light
Radiated, circling and enveloping
Him in wide and open crushing arms.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\

He sat bent down in front of the light.
Facing dancing patterns under
Moist soil and jutted crumpled grass. Or,
In his own lumpen mass, mishapen, the
Silhouette most often in his sight.

Before he felt the
Form and finish
Of the not-always,
The casted spells
In crevice and
Under stone
Held comfort.

Now, he traces them with
Swollen weary eyes. They seem
Void and
Vapid.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\\\\

Bulbous echoes ****** permeously,
Abdomen seething desperately.

No glooping sustenance
Force-fed and welcome came.

It signalled distant pin-drop time-before.

Blindly, he burdened sagging limbs;
Face gnawing into dirt and worm and grass.

Screeching solitude kept his fingers clawing,
Raw and thin, now punctures permeate:
Tiny everything always everywhere
At him all at once.

He mounted his haggard body,
Tugging at his wilted stalks,
Imploring them to save him.



In distant tones
A hollow echo
Of broken speech
Disperses past him



\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\
*                                  *                      ­           *
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\



Huddled shadow, hunched
Under rugged oak tree

Carp swim in darting
Pummels, refracted scales
Shining rainbow
Droplets

Shimmering on the shifting surface
Was him, an-other face, unknown and
Alien: crinkled with crevices and dark
Swollen eyes.

His ear twitches:
Voice. Dripping
With full-throated
Fervor

He turns to face
An-other man
Distant shadow
On the horizon
Waving disjointed
Stick-like appendage
Silhouetted by the
Setting sun.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\­\\\

He awoke: swollen passivity; embraced in
Canvasing warmth. An-other stood taut.

Now they folded over him, caressing him,
In his sagged skeletal frame. Embroiling him
In frantic whispers. They held his sunken
Face: wet with old-worn sobs and tears and
Shouts and fears, primal moans and hunger.

He turned to look into an-other's eyes:
His brimming.

Next he would come to see
The things themselves.

Incessant broiling battering:
Millions and millions of tiny
Drops fracture malleable concrete.
Making children sprint
And adults cower
Under shelter.

Deep echoing bellows.

The catharsis of the sky.

Rolling in vapid indignation,
Violet trees bloom rapidly
Seething succulent felt petals

Outside outside outside outside
Besides, outside is already inside
breaking contrast, juxtaposing
the out from in

He crawled. In the absence of
What was always nothing.

Huddled shadow, hunched
Under rugged oak tree.

Carp swam in darting
Pummels, refracted scales
Shining rainbow
Droplets

Silver pole juts up; stretching
appendages wide and open:
for folded socks, strewn.
For open hands, scattered.

Fingers dance; metal spoons:
for shrunken stems, boiled roots.
For shallots, butter braised and salted.
For open mouth, eager.

A hollow cylinder spins rapidly:
for crumpled soaking shirts, for black
trousers; restrained and sophisticated.
For open bodies, naked.

Suddenly, darts of song birds;
streaks silhouetted by cold blue
masses over red-purple swallowed heat.

Synapses are painted in exalted tones,
strewn across broad pathways
on canvas sheets. They are pinned
onto trees, towers, and billboard-city-streets.

We splash colour, in broad strokes,
outlining the already-in and
already-there.



Not. The blank space still
Left



Full stop. But never-stop.

Ceaseless
flourishing.

Always-in-already. Situated. Soon-already.
Being-for-itself-already. Not-always-in-already.
Separate, contained-already. Grass saturated. Crumpled-probably-a-pepsi bottle. Feel, see.
Experience-already. Open-time touch-already.
Already-know. Background. Un-already. Loop, static. Seen-already. Know-already. Dense, packed. Be-already. They-already. Other-is-already. I-already.

Words pour meaninglessly. Arbitrary
and seamless. Filtered yet pervasive.

Sentences erupt but don't hold
significance. Attached yet disembodied.

Speech cascades unwillingly. An alien
speaker. Detached. No metaphor.

AI echoes rapture, sin follows fall.
Apple divides permanently. Feet
washed masses kneel. Technology
bleeds incessantly. Judas whispers
secretively. Cheek turned, swollen
red and twice-marked. Snake bite.

Phone: Adam's rib. Our monastery.
8 billion serpentine invocations tempt
slyly. Double-footsteps tread
sharply. Sun bright, all-encompassing.
Dagger's thread cuts warming
wind. God's breath. Now dead.

Meek misers collate heaven's earth.
Inherited wealth un-dispersed.
Blessed persecutors revel. 'Number'
signifying the eternal. Apple divides
permanently. Bread now spread
thinly. Hoard expands needle's eye.

Closing. soon-already. breath.
Deep and heavy, soon now-already.
Feeling heavy, droop slow and steady.

Not-already stark open image
Merged spasms, rectangular light.
No-already, tight seeping so-already

Feeling heavy, stretc-hed slow and steady.

Then-already, gaze weak, sight thin:
Feel-already. Be-already. In-already.
Arm ajar-already hand enwrapped-already.

Feeling slow and steady. Beating,
blinking, slow. and. steady.  In-already.
Quick. and. steady.

Vivid abstractions permeate raucously
Fleeting flashing lights blind sight
Screens bend and hold and siphon
Thumbs trace etched designs, falling
Into insta, tap, check, notified, attention split

Vivid abstractions permeate raucausly
Tweeting typing meeting online sometimes-feeling
Always now. Transient. No holding. No keeping.
Fluttering text treads: IMPORTANT MESSAGE

Vivid abstractions permeate raucausly
Impermanence exploding possibility
Enclosure enwrapping wall-building:
Every way to coat fried chicken

Vivid abstractions permeate raucausly
Unfeeling excess behaviour ingrained
Re-created re-imagined re-already
Keep swiping, keep searching, already-already
The death star was almost real? NEW META

Vivid abstractions permeate raucausly
Enveloping all-already towards-which
Overloaded. 😂 Now already. 🕑 Steep in still.

Which is which?
The collective is composed of the singular
Yet when you take a step back and see
It is more than composed of singular
Rather, singularity is absorbed into the collective
Singularity cannot exist within collective
For it is collective
So be absorbed by it
Only then,
Can you truly see
The singular

What am I?
I wonder
Sitting in front of a screen
A collective of conscious particles?
A singular being, being-for-itself?
I suppose
I am neither
For I am not
For I am

To wondering ink, for digressive white;
faltering whispers pierce still. Floundering
in sepid lines. Treacherous for design,
and write is reaching, still strays in flight.
Form divides inky black, it's etched and torn,
crimped and moulded. 'Apple' bares new being.
So scratches mark brave page, still caught in plight.

For solemn sin reveres the sheet unturned;
reaping closed letters. Night closes quickly,
smoulders sleeping stooping prayers. Soon keys fly
into quick black type. Fluttering upon grand
strokes of fleeting binding. Grasped, now, some yet
lost inspiration, sweet and finding, succulent in diversion.

Thought cried expectantly
wishing for an other Chance
in sundering limelight

I turn to seek a moment
of contemplative silence
I expect the trees
to sway in the wind.
It is a still day

What is this feeling
that fills my soul?
The dull ache of a relationship
that has wilted and withered
before the first stem,
or leaf, disturbed the soil under
which it rested.

I swore the seed had already sprouted -
its fresh tender stem, vulnerable
and needy, had burst
forth into the vivid piercing
light of the sun, gobbling
up it's nutrients and crying
for more.

"Everyone tries their best"

It is no wonder then, that everyone's best seems to dissipate with a single
gust of wind

The collective effort of 8 billion
people - or however many of us there are now - is simply too much for the world to handle. We are too straddled with overtimes, unrequited love, building a body
that is more attractive
than our perceptions
will allow, and a multitude of insane,
other, 'productive' tasks:
mindlessly absorbing ourselves into the depths of the internet
so there is no space for the efforts
of any others: it is that grindset mindset,
the continuous, unending, unceasing
flow that is inevitably lost on these winds
of time. Every well intentioned effort
simply flutters and flys and flees away
on a single whimsical gust.
Never noticed. Or seen.

This absurd cacophony of effort wilts
away into silence, as if dropped
from an old willow tree in the shade
of a grey autumn eve. Once a great canopy of lush, productive, hard-working
leaves, it was soon ripped,
from a tree who no longer needed
it, and carried by the harsh
November wind - to fall and rot
and disintegrate into the groggy
earth with all the others
piled on one another in some pitiless
heap, waiting to be trodden
on and shat
on by a passing poodle wearing a pink coat.

What does it mean to be in the moment?
To be present, truly
For your mind to not be wondering,
Second guessing,
Pausing...
For when I ask myself, "am I present?", I realise I am not
For if I were, I would not have asked
So how can I know myself to be present,
If I cannot ask?

Change is the only static thing
When the question is asked
Is it changing, or is it the same
The answer will always be
The same, for it is always
Changing. So you must stay
The same within the change
And as such, be always changing

Here
There
Everywhere
Look around and see
There is everything
For you, and for me
The world is at your fingertips
So see
See it all
It belongs to you,
As it does to me
The infinite and everything
Touch it,
Feel it,
Become part of it,
Become absorbed in it,
It is as real as you
Or me
Since it is everything
Breathe it,
Become it,
Can you feel it?
The vast swathes of everything

Shimmering light, gleaning
In my eye, million
Shades of green
Among the trees
What is it
That I see?
When I look at you,
Is it a reflection of me?
Or an abstraction of you?
Is it really you,
That I am looking at,
Or am I looking at me,
Through a part of you?

When did children lose their love of learning?

When they were told to conform,
To forget their being,
To discard interests, agency, creativity

My own complicity
In the stifling of identity

Authenticity, a digression of the self,
A dissolution of swarming
Complexities

When did I gain my love of learning?

The burning crucible
Of curiosity

Set aflame by rejection of conformity

Constraints, curriculum, crushing expectations
and a world disintegrating
fires of digressions

When is conformity an expression of authenticity?

When is authenticity just another form of conformity?

Inspiration is a hard thing to grasp
When you mind is empty
Like a field of grass
Yet filled within this field
Is nothing but countless hills
Rolling and moving and slowing
Soothing this lush green meadow
A massage to help the mind to help it mellow
Making it shallower and less
Convoluted. Not so complex, not seething in
Interpreted meanings and stained allusions to
Past confusions, not waves that pummel the grassy shores
Seizing those hills in frothy exhalations, seeming so
Unseemly to those guardian hills
Holding those pleasant fields and pleasant thoughts
Safe while the waves wash among the grass
And become those hills now washed with sea

And then my mind turned blue.