Art is
  Pain.
        Pain is
    Art?

Im losing track of time again.

Lost in words, lost in my own head.

Theres so much to see, so much to do.

So little time.

And it slips from my grasp like how sand slips through the fingers of a clenched fist.

Theres no fighting the flow.
    So why try.

Why do old things never become shiny again?

Its a shame,

really.

I want to explore you

(Is this what this is?)



I want to hold every inch. I want to graze. My eyes they hunger. My mind tries to satiate my hunger but alas. Nothing imagined can compare. It is only fact. The only fact i know for a certainty.

(Okay, maybe thats a bit of an overexaggeration. But.


Shut up.)

I always end up giving up. Wind up throwing in the towel. Too wound up. Dissatisfaction.

(I almost said insatisfaction. But that would have been incorrect. No no. I am correct. Always. I am me. Me is right. Ha.)

I need to be pleased. Please, please me. Dear god what is going on. Inexplicable feels in places unpredictable. In ordinary actions turned utterly and splendidly extraordinary.

(How cliché.)

Sweet toxicity. Unexpectable, unsuspecting poison in every glance, every look. It holds me firmly with an unrelenting grip that says "there is no such escape from this destiny." And the words are such a pleasure to hear. And i want to hear them over. And over. And over again. And i want it deep and commanding. I want definity in the way that it already is. Who could ask to escape from something such as this. What poor blind fool would willingly give this up. This infinity. This immensity.

No. Not i. Never. I could never deny this. Not now or ever.

I am a happy captive of this place
in life
in which i am present in
at the moment.

If you have to ask if something is a poem

Then, yes

It is probably a poem.


And if not,
Then it is now.

That is a poem.
I make(̶m̶a̶d̶e̶) it so.
I think, therefore i am.

It is.