i don't tend to like people, truly.
i used to feel bad about it.
but why? i don't like fighting how i feel.
and it's not constant, but rather;
a passing remembrance.

i don't think that my soul is able to conform.
Career's, Assets, the Bowing of Heads.
but then again it has always been the way;
we all have our jobs to do.
but what is mine? i question it to the point of craze.

i wonder if am i write, to sing, to wash.
any form that i assume is impression;
not true.
i seem to be that which is impressed upon; clay.
and in that clay there lies the desire to form, to become.

my ideas of family, of love, when i am like this - cease.
not cease; but the thought of their failure brings no worry.
like an easy melancholy, a slow fade, not too bright - just cool.
i needn't pray for it's continuance, for in it's leave, the seeds of it's return.

i feel that there is no "thing" i have been set here to do.
nothing is critical, nothing-crucial, just a collection of;
indiscriminate "now's".
the faces of my elder, my kin ; my duties hearth.
as they drift from and on my scar-flesh tear open once more.

there is no sound and i feel close to none cept myself and God.
but in these moments of Cool, its as though God sleeps -
there is only the Moon.
and in her light i become She, lamenting over the ripples.
and what i find in that water, either drunk or bottled, i carry on.

there is nothing to attain, nothing to acquiesce, nothing can be;
apprehended.
simple work, simple life, the collecting and pouring of water.
the sun will return and urge me to clutch and aspire and gain
and convince me of what i should be, but never am.