the more you're attached to your narration of life,
the more you are missing the comprehension;
which indeed can't ever be contained or explained.
we are the derivative of energies and ****** up chunk of proteins, which doesn't want to be a part of anything else but you. '

you're the biggest cover to keep and you're the biggest secret to reveal, to not the very world but very self of yours.'
that's the fixture you do with narration, you never hold it; you give up on it but what you can learn is the comprehension.

This spoken language,
Spoken by my heart,
In garbled anguish,
Can’t be deciphered
By a mind that learned
To speak happiness.

My heart is vanquished,
Crying to come home,
In foreign language,
Can’t be understood
By a mind that learned
To listen for joy.

This is when your body learns loneliness,
When your thoughts don’t comprehend what you feel.

I don’t know what I’m reading.

I stare and stare and stare at the book given to me by my professor but can’t bring myself to open it, because I don’t know what I’m reading. It’s not in a foreign language that I’m having a hard time translating, because ironically, that would be far too easy. It’s in my native language, the words registering to my brain like breathing, but I still don’t know what I’m reading.

What are these authors saying, as they twist and weave their words into a world that everyone around me seems to understand? I can see the surface level of what the author is trying to say, and if I try hard enough I know I can scratch at it to see the layer right underneath, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

“Don’t give excuses,” my professor says, and I know it comes across as an excuse as I try to explain that I can’t tell anyone what the underlying meaning of this scene means, or the symbolism it’s supposed to represent, since it goes flying over my head like a bird narrowly avoiding collision.

“You need to participate,” my professor says, and I know I need to try but how can I when everything that takes ages for me to think of is said within the first five minutes of class discussion? What takes me an hour takes my classmates a minute; what takes time for me to raise my hand for takes my classmates to the next topic, my contribution long past relevant.

How do I survive college this way? How do I get by when writing is what I’m good at, but I can’t understand the writing of other authors and poets who put just as much work into their stories as I do? I am a fraud; the looks of confusion and shame I receive when I state my major to the world are well-deserved.

“Could you share with the class?” my professor asks before we are dismissed, the eyes of my classmates tearing into my soul as I try to bring the words to my lips that I know will never come. What could I say to everyone that expects an intelligent conversation from a college senior?

“I’m sorry professor,” I say. “I can’t.” And I sag under the weight of disappointment.

It’s not my fault, after all. I don’t know what I’m reading.

In nature
trees grow
as wide as the
roots will
allow.

At a point,
science must
surpass nature
or risk becoming
a 'nature' -unto itself.

There is a light following behind me.
Making a angry shadow in front of me.
Should I turn to the safety of the light;
Or investigate my curiosity in a parallel universal fight.
The light beckons for me to come home where everything will be fine.
The shadow represents my future self within my new design.
For me to accept this new variation of myself I must slow down time.
I must accept and inspect from my past design.
The influence of the light has brought to this confrontation.
The maddening thought is how can I change without positive reconciliation.
As the light fades on another day.
Will I change in some other way.
The decision is to try to make a change on myself.
By putting all life’s tragedy’s on the shelf.
Forget them and stash them far beyond the comprehension of oneself.
Deep into my memories I will dwell.
With the rising of another day.
I see my shadow and look on it with dismay.
Have I changed?
Maybe I have just rearranged.
Whatever is done is done.
Next time I meet my shadow I might turn and run.
Although change might be good for me.
I most of time I do not see.
The light carry’s us away.
No longer will we be crowded in dismay.

Where ever you may be let there be solicitude. Clear all other moods my dear. a sensitivity you took for granted. All the ******* you ranted. Still all is forgiven, but not forgotten. As my inner demons want to see you rotting. this battle inst over yet, let compassion fill your heart; before all is to late an ripped apart. you had my sympathy but forget my empathy. Let off the deep end, descend my ill minded friend. i know this is hard to comprehend. quite useless indeed. just heed the warning because we may not see the next morning my friend. peace cease to rest as for your no longer here, just a mirror i broke.  so evoke or choke on this toxic air. as its seems harder to bare.   to everyone who thinks differently or indifferently i wish you all well. as i step through hell watching from the inside out.. endless route. i now walk in solitary, that this wont end through any

promissory i held.  ashes fades to grey.  only to feel betrayal to watch all vanish away.

_ marty  X.x ftw an FML