i trivialize my life
consistently.
presuming life to be fruitful
for others
in ways my own cannot,
will not.
i feel at a standstill
climbing a hill whose peak is as elusive
as meaningful self-discovery is.

reality seems to idle,
ascension of the mind seems futile.

i’ve recently felt
as if i’m perpetually
freefalling,
incoherently lolling
my head back
and forth.
suspense super-extended,
awaiting arrival for an impact
to then discern
reality
from
dream

my love is boundless
but goes unheard

your speech
aloof
bounds over the love
of my words

am I unintelligible?

forgotten trauma
projected
leaving loved ones dejected
abjectly defending themselves
upon deaf ears

why can it be so difficult to love you?

a seemingly self-possessed woman
possessed by the shadow
of a broken wife

the ink of a pen
caressed between fingertips
fingers taken close to the
curvature of a *****'s lip
then deftly swatched atop their cheek
a mirror asks:
what hue am i?

silently turmoiled
hiding behind tears
of hidden fears
coaxed to reside in the depths of my soul

communication thwarted
misunderstanding magnified

whispers of affection
and shy glances of admiration
heart swells in adoration

how simple,
yet so fulfilling

never felt synergy
quite like this.
bliss.
****** tension surmounts
my psyche.
come on, come bite me.
******* flesh
before i feel regret
come morning.

emotions swell
logic loses efficacy

heart palpitations,
an amorphous entity
awakened.
lurking within cavernous depths,
careening behind the nooks
of an unintelligible space.
why are you so shy?
come close,
come to the light.

i wrote a poem
roughly a year ago
the blues of self-discovery
ebbing-and-flowing
as i,
growing,
struggled to find ways
to ride its tidal wave

i’ve settled,
atleast temporarily.
identity is a fickle thing

doubt.
a common catalyst for rout
from dreams and silly things,
who occupy the distant mind,
who find time to appreciate
the simplicities of
existence.
reality for the capitalistic hustler,
the acceptable hedonist,
has no time for dreams
and silly things.

should i be more practical?

do not forget
to accept
right-brained activity
the womb of the mind
requires nourishment
and tenacity of the individual
to balance logic and rationale
with compassion and love

a deep understanding of within
breeds creativity in abundance

a cynic at best
believing life to be at odds with my purpose
believing life to be a circus
of amateurs mimicking my “greatness”

self-delusion is scary
but so is wasted potential

my compassioned heart
hardened by figments of enemies
out to steal my being, my identity

when it was never in a position to be stolen

eyes closed.
soft breaths,
in and out of nose.
trailing of thoughts
left to their own devices.

to accept the mind
as it is.
rest will result

seemingly brooding
to the unacquainted eye
another’s speech lost to the
mindless drawl
i’ve tuned monotony to

who knew how torturous
sitting could be

john redding
traveler by sea
upon death
revitalised a breath
inside of me.
a short story
shortly, but surely
kindling a desire
for the waywardness of a
vagabond

baby steps
not everything is for the taking
the moment you feel such to be true
if you do, the tendency to become blue
is maximized, magnified
by unachievable expectations
and a lack of positive affirmations

you’ll get there,
growth is in the works

emotional sensitivity:
a stigmatized sensibility.
“primitive”.
“socially unacceptable”.
i’ve lost myself
to psychological suppression,
pretending to lack feeling
when perceptual meaning
comes intuitively
before rationally.

what to do, or say
requires convening
with both body and mind
in attendance
present, to ask questions relevant
to one's purpose
to recircuit alignment of the
spiritual and physical

the transmittance of ancestral guidance no longer thwarted by separation
of being

to be content
creeping against closed doors.
the creaking of old floors
entice my senses,
for that i call home.

enough time has passed
for me to ask
is the process worth it
a second time?
to put a dime to my name,
to put time towards a “greener” path,
presumably.

dissociations of a self
far from home
remains such an enthralling story.

wholly whole
for the time being.
fleeting feelings
of great esteem,
while shyly gleaning for the one thing
to shift my mood
into existential dread.