In the paradigm of this fictional paradise—in the eyes
        Of thinking life is all about bias
On the one side, you may find me on a grey line
Or rather a grey lie; as the N is the ends, of something unfamiliar
You may slip easier while wearing slippers.

As are my best years: warm ash blowing in the wind
Time is just a mastermind, planning only to seem less everyday
I tell myself not to be afraid, of that which few will understand
   Life is unclear, as like watching scenes through filthy glass
   I only worry for the young, as still being a youth
Those trying to achieve their dreams, by the skin of their teeth
                                             With a missing tooth

But where am I even going with this,
      Fuelling insecurities to my drive.
The longest ride of galloping dark horses inside,
   I fail always to have a stable mind.
But let me hose you a little, pouring out my pain in these prose
I suppose it’s the running smell of intentions, with a running nose
   I’m cold, and flew out of the window, busy chasing my dreams.

The birds and bees—life is full of all those awkward conversations
         ***** referred to the birdseed;
         Pollen I guess is fairy dust attracting bees
    Everything eventually desires a multiply; of course to divide
The female’s thighs, adding my power of manhood, bisecting insides
     And we hope not to subtract the time we have left,
       As the final product will be the life of our child

   (I still hate math, but ironically try to make this moment count)

Seriously where am I going with this? That’s me again—
Heading nowhere, without any directions.
    I must of missed the signs; sigh
    So excuse me while I grab my thoughts—not to thwart
    And trap myself in these usual profound thoughts.
Those who love to think deep, probably can’t swim.
And if you don’t get that; blame your shallow mind.
    This is Adults swim—
                         All children kindly step outside.

Now let me talk to the mature poets in the room
I warn you, it’s grave to write like it’s always your last;
Buried as a pen in your tomb
Some would try to write good deeds in the good book,
                                                  In that waiting room.

With your holey socks; the only time you seem a fibre of holy
   Hey you! Take off your shoes, this is Holy ground
         And by the way, that was me being profound.

I’m the chaos of words...The Chaos is profound!