the eternal search for the someone else inside, who me?

nat-lipstadt Poems

for reasons unknown to me, the urgent need to commence this one with the words: Oh man, this is, this be, challenging, but these words were found on the drying rack in my abattoir, my nickname for my unending Draft Day filings and kept poking despite another overnight splash, the product pool is full of creativity's synaptic junctions, a wild night of up~writing, from god knows when, and here it is 7:18, there are obligations, needs that a demand a face to face meeting, tho the troops are in their boarded beds, gently snoring… so quick, to the sizable task at hand the search is perpetual, not eternal, for no one comes forward, willing to admit, they have been around since King David's time, practicing this verbal chicanery game of using words to guide the perplexed, unless, of course, unless someone you might know might be a big fat fibber right about now, you're exasperatingly seething, "where the heck is a poem gonna show its face?" well, and now, some struggle mightily, to ascertain who and what is their uniqueness, oft turned and twisted, caught between competing entities, asking quests that take lifetimes to resolute, and when you look at the typewriter roll silently choking the white cloud surrounding it, you, you want to cry/pray out aloud, who, who shall I be, to make a completion between the person inside of me. the person I think I want to be, dream of be-coming, and yes it is too, eternal, for as long as humans can think dream, create and anticipate, we all will nonetheless perpetually search for the other someone, sometwo in us…