An eye on a bench next to a toolbox
He sees the sun, the park, and the the toolbox
His only friend is the toolbox
he say hi his only eye
Everyday he alway say hi in the morning.

I wonder if I'll sleep tonight,
But then I laugh as I check reality.
I never sleep at night
Because my mind won't sit still.

I'll lay there and think.
Not that I mind.
I'll think of my day,
What has come and what has yet to pass.
But not that I mind.
I'll think of those I know,
Where I'm going
And what I wish.
And it's not that I mind,
But the only problem is,
Even when my body rests,
My mind continues on it's way.

My mind will dream a vast landscape
With all my treasures held within.
Those things that I hold dearest,
And those things I wish to hold dear,
That simply. Float. Away.
Alas! Just barely out of grasp.

But I really don't mind.
Because when I awake,
I have the pleasure
Of chasing those floating aspirations
With actual plausibility of capturing them.

This cave held secrets, of that he was sure.
It was filled with ages of debris.
Already they had found the bones
of two australopithecines.
He squatted near the latest find,
A flake of stone, stone that had been worked
long before **** sapiens’ time;
when our precursors walked the Earth.
He felt the stones weight in his hand,
Cool to the touch, the well-made blade,
Sharp enough to skin a deer-
a treasured heirloom from this grave.
His mind wandered, in the cool dark of the cave,
to think of those who worked this stone.
They were driven from the Eden of the trees
and struggled to survive on the grassy plain.
In a night without fires’ comforting glow;
In a night full of sounds; roars whispers and groans.
He grasped the stone tool tighter still
He had never felt so all alone.
Then he was rescued from all such thoughts
By the vibrating call of his I phone.

I think I'm surviving
In all the wrong ways.

Sometimes I scratch my skin so loose
about whether we would find where happy is hiding
if we thought much less
about these twisting logics,
quieted our overstimulated ambiance
by quieting our own processing
and essentially
not caring so much.

I know I would, would find it somewhere,
but it's funny how that doesn't make me wish
I thought less in time,
I wonder what is brewing in me
that so craves a stormy conscious
rather than what we all cry those late nights about,
because my theory of life
is that the purpose of life
is to find it,
yet part of me seems to care more about the theory
than the truth and action of itself.