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Time is not the enemy,
but a forgotten friend.

Infinity is just a word from where I stand.

Go ahead, time,
swallow me again.

Your wrath is something I can stand,
though your indifference is exhilarating,
so let's make amends.

Whether I wish it or not,
I am part of your cycle.
As the day and night change
they remind me of my constant revival.

I always rise
when the tides of change are near.
I do my deed,
I grind the gears,
I bring about chaos and, again,
I disappear.

Use me as you have in eons past.
But, please,
assure me this time will be the last.

It's not that I'm tired,
it's not that I'm worn,
I just want to know that I am born
for something more.

Maybe I want to explore,
not just be an object of admiration or scorn.
Maybe I just don't want to forget,
as when the world's needs are met,
I usually return to the chaotic primordial set.

Am I just a chess piece you use,
is this of my own will?
I've been the beggar,
the king,
the jester
and the shill.
I've been a source of fear,
the precedent of love,
a conniving thrill.

I've forsaken my odds,
I've played with your so called gods,
I've brought droughts and floods
and nights oh so dark.
It's been so,
and now at the end of this age,
again I shall start.

I've lived your countless archetypes,
I've been both,
the bringer of death and of life.
Now, I'll combine all the dualities of the mind,
let the day and night intertwine in my eye.

I've transferred the whispers of the heavens to the earth,
I've transversed the worst,
I've applauded those of worth.

I've guided the weary and inspired the brave.
I've flown above the mountains of Hyperborea,
and I've been in exile,
forced to hide in ancient, primitive caves.

I've endured,
yet I've remained sane.
I've procured change,
yet I've remained the same.

I never caved,
I never swayed.
I've been played,
but those I've played with
never did have their way.

You know how many I've saved.
You know how many I've killed and maimed.

So, please, listen to my voice,
let it reach your throne of gray.

This time,
I want to stay,
long enough so I can find my true face.
Long enough to be displaced,
and diversify my fire
until it cannot be traced.
I'm the one who suffers from boredom.
An anonymous username
appearing on a forum.

Lurking for answers,
knowing that I should be wary,
for if I stumble long enough
through these bits of consciousness
I encounter,
I may forget what I even asked for.

Links lead to links,
information in chunks,
like little kicks to the heart.
Everytime I uncover something new,
I stand uncovered before it as well.

A hermit,
by the words
and those who've heard them.
I turn the pages,
try to learn,
really earn it.

I bask,
at the world's elusive beauty.
It overpowers me.

Reluctant, yet curious,
I let it speak out to me and hook me in.

I let it tamper with my senses.

I let it find my boiling point.

I evaporate.

I begin merging with it,
giving in completely,
letting it uncover itself to me

...and devour me.

The dream,
so fulfilling,
yet empty at its core.
It leaves me wanting more, of course.

Its imperfection.
A fervid hunger it awakens within me.
Completely sore, I feel it leading me astray.

I appear as if I've pleasantly sunk into contemplation,
as though it has been revealed to me
that the rationale I keep under my sleeve
is not enough to help me sail freely
through these incorporeal waters of creation.

The shore may seem stil,
but the electric currents
raging in the deep ends of the water,
are always eager to stir up trouble.

A rash movement on the dashboard.
Going overboard
with fantasies of what the beyond could hold,
the need to hold this hole,
this portal to someone's soul,
often leading to a sole space
where one feels they could truly afford
to lose control.

I'd like to imagine this 'hole'
as a torn down place,
where ideas could be exchanged,
where passion could become airborne
so it can travel and reform
through points of view...

...and with each wall torn down by the exchange, you are reshaping yourself.


As you see that life itself shifts.

Co-creating with what is creating you.

Understanding that it's a two-way process.

Remembering those words
from an artist of old,
'Everything you can imagine is real.'.

The very essence laid out without resistance.

Bliss in a void so bliss-less.

The breath of new life
given to the dusty corners of my mind,
creating me, I know,
just by reaching in and yanking out
what I'd been holding in all along.

A story unfolding within the psyche,
a story that if it were to be described,
the aftertaste it would leave would remind
of the scent of wine and roses.

It's obvious my inner sights are rose-colored.

And yet,
when the world calls out to me,
tempting me to escape from life itself,
I take note of the rushing water,
a sound that's filling the background,
a reminder,
that all of the life that surrounds me,
whether virtual,
or stunningly present the dream itself.

I see this state is not a wayward journey.
It's more like coming home.

I plunge towards the depths,
accepting my fate,
knowing that the hum of the world
will always follow me,
always like a tiny switch
on the lower left corner of my heart,
patiently waiting for me to turn on the lights.

When I'm ready.

When I can.

It's undemanding, as it's timeless,
and it's merely keeping the door unlocked
for me.
Forget my face,
I’m just a messenger of your faith,
I’m just a soulless silhouette of age
- an actor for your stage.

Forget my name,
I’m just a shadow playing everyone’s game,
I’m just a soldier in everyone’s maze,
I’ve made a bet that’s only meant to be raised.

My heart is warm,
from all the faces of love I have born,
From all the times I evaded the norm.
You either go ******* or get bored.

My soul is real,
from all these troubles I had to feel.
A bit of happiness I had to steal,
so I could be strong enough to make you heal.
Angel eyes and a devilish smile.
A breath of sighs and an enigmatic tower.

Questions with no answer,
dead silence filled with pointless banter.
A painful truth in an aching chest.
Sharp words, an intimidating alias.

A cold head and disfigured thoughts.
Reasons and answers - satisfaction out of tremor.
My home has been torn by hurricanes,
over-worn by hopelessness.

Was I the poison? Or was I the cure?
How would I know? I'd never be sure.
I turned into a menace 'cause of this empty existence.
  Feb 2020 cigarette daydreams
bartering time for money, wasting it on love
or vice versa

rationalizing choices in white rabbit pocket watch anxiety
a pound of flesh to sell off a soul in limited real estate high yield *******

not a single serving available to nourish the mind
after insipid, ear-bleeding monologue conversations

compiling minutes into days suffered
always searching for that quick high, down to the wire bout of auto-****** asphyxiation

in diamond pressure ulcers born in
self-induced, great expectations
that look like strangers in the distance

the breadcrumbs that resemble the stain of dreams
feed the drama that knows the only truth

the hollow cannot be filled with a diet of Xanax and double shot espresso
dancing through norms on marionette strings

bartering time for love, wasting it on money
or vice versa
when time is all we possess

wondering, if once that currency is depleted,
will your soul finally feel complete
  Feb 2020 cigarette daydreams
Some days pass by fast like a flash
of white, a young woman
crossing her legs on a park bench

while some nights roll slowly
like dark stockings a widow takes off
at the end of her mourning

but tonight is as black as *******
draped over the light by the bed

a silhouette of a lady in the glow
of a cigarette before morning.
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