The lost art
of finding yourself

I think the truth is,
we are all a little fraction of broken
in one way or another.
And there might be something significantly beautiful
in that unspoken darkness.

I’m always on the run
running for my life
I don’t know where to
I just know I’m running
from my past

My distant ancestors before me spent more than 100 million years as non thinking, hunter/gatherer  mammals.  Then in the last million or so, these ancestors of mine began to think, struggle, evolve, organize, create.

For this? All of this I see around me?

I guess I just expected more.

     My ancestors crawled out of the ocean grew limbs for walking then evolved hands for climbing, grasping, survived the ice ages, conquered the plants and animals and the harsh elements, harnessed the laws of nature, created a civilization, a society.

All for this?

I don't know.  I'm looking around.  I'm not impressed at what I see.  

       I think we should start over.

Gonna keep away for few days
From the eyes of entire town
From the lies and outcries
And the depressing vibes
Wanna go and be earth's companion
Be friend of rain's fragrance
And out of the purity of wellspring
Inhale a new expression
Gonna leave my soul
In the hands of wind for a while
Gonna give a bracing hello
To the Sun and get past
These ill-lit days
I need to feel Nature's truths
And be bathed by its variety
I'm tired of all repetitions
Tired of all smoke and iron
I feel breathless in open air
And need a little window
A little change of construct.

All sitting on the winds wings
  in the season of darkness.

The sky in charcoal voices
as the earth quakes in quivers of
tremor
in a ****** arcade of hell, all
wearing a black mask!

Carnivorous virus tearing flesh
    for flesh in
         defiance of gravity of
      humanity, leaving the living
     dead at awakening of the gory
         dawn!

A century of dead flu suddenly
awoke  from bizarre grave, burying million lives and their freedom
in tomb of emptiness
  and fiery fear!

Armageddon?

A microscopic drop of red
In a place no human eye can see
Erased the blackboard of my mind
Of all the words that make me, me.

I’m left here with chalk in hand
Trying hard to bridge the gaps
Hoping to connect the strands
And find myself again, perhaps.

I reach for words and they don’t come -
Simple words used every day.
I substitute less perfect ones
And laugh embarrassement away.

There is a word for what this is:
Lethologica it’s called.
I have it written on my arm
In case it needs to be recalled.

Thesaurus is my new best friend
Where I find the words I need
That are now locked away from me
An unexpected deep brain bleed.

My hand won’t write like it once did
The letters shrink and grow at will
I practice grade school penmanship
But write at third grade level still.

My balance is not what it was
My hands are clumsy paws
Too much saliva wets my chin
And no none knows the cause.

Yet life goes on and I do too
I offer what I can
Perhaps my words will help help someone
To take a braver stand.
ljm