The average person knows between 20,000 and 30,000 words.
~ and for Senor CG~
<>

infinite then the multiplicity of combinations,
and yet we use so few,
and the comforting ones,
we repeat unconsciously
for they apparently applicable
to the boo/hoo/who in Who Me?

messing about in poetry,
an excuse to betray ourselves
to a greater audience with
hints and provenances,
secret’s subtle
could mean
trouble

I have revealed more than
I could believe ~
not the drabfactoids
but the insights

that flesh my self~sketches,
you could ask me anything,
my answer simple and
insane~same!

if you explicitly explain
there is no fun in that,
but the clues writ large,
answering questions you
didn’t know to ask

plenty to hide, some too
well disguised

but the hints are clear enough,
to make sure you’re
asking the correct ones
so,
sorry apology
Senor Carlo
the doorknob to my spotlight clearly
visible
in the portrait of my preposterous
multi~nefarious words

no great reveal
no screaming squeal
for you to decrypt

still requires an
inning of
excavation digging,
for it’s in the over thousands of
psalms and prayers
and a few layabout
poems
who/hoo,
too*
(wink)

I’m clamoring in the stale sheets.

Twisting and turning my body and mind.

I’m drowning in the streaks of defeats.

Awakened and humbled as night and morning slowly become intertwined.

I’m flailing in the wind of obsoletes.

Accepting and acknowledging my unrefined state of mind.

I’m progressing in the ability to make peace.

I’m going to be ok.
I’m going to be fine.
I’m going to be ok.

I love myself, finally.

Perfect calculation has the inevitable human result of an enigma.

To gaze beyond the factors of sigma,
allowing creative wildfires to birth,
joining the thoughts outside the stigma.

The beauty of us makes the world we live in.

The terror of emotions is what brings us to life,
not a single identical twin or sin,
the mind allowing true living to begin.

Life your life unafraid and open.

Write your golden woven tale and be outspoken,
with self-belief leading the unspoken towards the unbroken.

Investigate your mind.

Allow it to unwind.

You never know what you will find.

Maybe a scare or maybe a mental uplift is trapped inside.

Just don't deny yourself this endless gift.

You must try,
find the third eye.

Creases and lines guide our malleable vessel,
the mind.

Doubts, fears, and anxieties breakdown even the strongest of vessels to the core,
can it take much more?

Drowning in emotion, the exterior begins to erode apart, board by board.
How much more damage can such a small vessel endure?

Lust and greed lead the moaning vessel through the wrong currents and paths,
seemingly like a sociopath on a warpath.

We can only call on one savior in such detrimental times.

The mind.

Love, empathy, kindness, care, happiness, and positivity is the quickest escape, it has no name as it's inside every brain.
Our existence.

The mind.

Time is tragically still
and the air is frigid.

I've now begun to settle from my past state
of pure livid,
anger I can't live with.

With the mastering of calm and meditative breathing
the stress melts away.
I'm constantly watching it slowly decay.

Control back on my side
as I suddenly feel
the odd sensation of content inside.

Coping and alive,
and somehow,
still,
I thrive.

Still and aware now as the energy begins to stir,
my racing thoughts now begin to slur.

Consistent practice has titled me connoisseur.

A silencer.

Free from my past saboteur.

We all "were",
and next step must occur.

Who am I if I'm not alive enough to see?

Who can I become with so much internal deceit?

Who and what is a soul when it's become lost?

Who and what is remembered when I'm forgot?

We all traverse pain, we all know it's true name.

The cold eternal flame that is universally the same, the fuel to this almighty game of life we confusingly play.

Seeping into this mattress the only consistency I know now, the only object I recognize is my stoic unchanging frown.

Running away always seems the viable choice, but the lonely mind is succumbed to having no voice.

The choice is directly in front of me and my hand, yet it looks so hideously bland, I don't understand.

When will my soul become a part of this confusing land?

So easily forgotten, do we remember the bright days of playing in the sand?

When dreams were always ingrained in the inevitable plan?

We all seem to forget the small thought of no matter what I can.

if you ask an olympic athlete how they have become so successful, their response may start with "i’ve been practicing”.

every movement of practice and every ounce of effort had been put into fully maximizing their ability to perform. but isn’t even funnier to think that you haven’t “practiced” anything more than you have been able to practice life?

since you were born, that was it. you were given the moment to start. to perfect. and somehow, were just so bad at it. even though humans are creatures of habit, there is no routine way to practice how you live or what you decide to do.

you are constantly trapped in the spotlight, having to decide every action you will take next, not able to practice. maybe lives just have to be that. its either for you, or against you. no matter how hard you practice you just can’t seem to get it right.

and sometimes, you have quit.