I am but a few words,
Mindful of manners and mayhem.
My dreams come in waves of plenty,
Yet I spare only a few.
I mumble and tumble over them,
They beg no quarter.
Yet wish to be heard,
I silence what wishes to speak.
Yet lives on only in single memory,
I dance around in cryptic self-wonder.
But must answer in plainish ways,
Is it the punishment of living onward?
Am I to be the self translator of self?
Cursing but not ending,
Living but not yet dead.
What possible way of misery is this?
What cantankerous absolute point of view is worth seeing first?
Am I the wild one?
Set forth to wander a desert made by others.
Perish the thought I survive someone else’s dream,
That I live the uncontrolled controlled.
What manner of mindset does the fool endure?
What crept, slithered, painstaking idea became my own?
My dream, is it?
My life, is it?
My sadness, my madness, the ups and downs, is it?
Who lives of me?
Who lives for me?
Who desires to see me and not demand compensation?
Does the wind blow in my favor?
This tossing and turning of mayhem and manner is outwardly atrocious,
It begs, it pleads, it demands as like a child.
Am I still?
By others do I mature or am I already?
Questions and personal answers,
But who’s right?
What desire of manner is of self or of others?
I ask and yet self reply,
I see yet seen only others self.
This is the madness of this world,
Am I of you or am I of me?
