Looking through a window that is slightly open, so that a breeze winds in with gathered memories of subliminal pain.
And I'm lost partially wandering on a plot of unknown sand. With the sun no longer reflecting, refraction. A reddening burn and a quickened pulse aching ***** and held breath. I know where I am.
I am a fake. But I cannot go through with it. If I do not in the "real," why lie online? Why hide myself and view myself criticize myself in comments with names that aren't mine, not even who I want to be?
Why do I ignore myself, and let fade into lingo.
Because I am human and I don't want you to know me. Even when I want you to feel, I want you to share this moment with me. And that is why I post these discombobulating pieces of no reckoning, non-entertaing, ultimate **** "poems." Because I want you to understand this me in this instant.
I don't like to reread. I don't like to rewrite. I like to keep it pure, so I can go back and look at who I was and what I wrote.