What a fatal flaw,
this frail frame
that holds my name,
faulty flesh
that bares my flame,

how easily I can be
deceived by what
I think I see
or how I want
reality to be.

How through
the lens of sense
that I use
I can unintentionally
obstruct the truth.

Tragic that
all the facts
that make up everything
are beyond the comprehension
of this insignificant human being.

-

i submit~

they had been used to fill the balloon
in order to make it lofty, without any
regard for these molecules not desiring
a state of massed captivity,

with a clown smiling literally from
ear to ear with what he had done,
sentencing them to an uncertain fate
inside a rubberspheric prison.

floating erratically above the small child
he had given them to, they bounce up and
down repeatedly upon string as this small
jailer runs between tall ma'ams and misters

they long to be released,
but they do not desire
a wandering cell
at the mercy of
the winds—

!!! FANTASTIC CHANGE !!!

A man in dark vestiges
has wandered into this paradigm
with lit cigar in mouth, wearing a black moustache
upturned at the ends. He smiles in twisted lip pleasure

as he
POPS!!!

the key into the lock

FREE !!!

the yellow cocoon shrivels instantly away,
tiny helium souls quickly separate as they
dissipate completely into oblivion within
a welcoming clear blue sky

Free—

~so you may understand, a possible
justification exists for —conceivably—
any negative human activity...

There must be a message
in the occurrence that whenever
in a closed-up space of time
I can never sit down
to any mind-occupying activity
yet resort no matter what
to observance,
passing as unrequited passion
of someone else’s (vocation),
shape-o-thoughts and sensing,
being the music the radio is listening to, and tender stupefying approaching
to hurt questions and structures
who hold onto philosophy
and one stance.
My depth darts me over
to finally look straight
into my own eyes
instead of straying,
diverting from the claim of my proper door.
I cannot die and will not,
will not leave my higher stake
for the trash bins’,
among which we live in,
sake.

Þis world ain’t so vast and different
From þose found in what’s written
             We write grand and tremendous of all þings
Þat we’ve imagined and delved deeply
              to try oh so potently tu give revealing
Yet when we look about and just see unobscured and clearly
       Unperceiving and wiðout þinking
             Giving þe world its chance to speak frankly
                   It’ll display tragic n pretty
                         for you n me þose þings most true
                                 Beyond suggestion ann interpreting
                                       Just simply incessant beauty
                                            in an unceasing locomotion

Extrovertism
or any other sibling
of it
doesn’t realise itself solely
through the mannerisms of
speaking,
choice of company,
activities or
similar antics.
It mainly possesses in
its hold our
mind as a way
of revealance,
as our
thoughts might cling
on it dependent,
in constant
shouting & fleeting
from Stillness,
our lone
presence
;
OR either have
‘em all ready
in conscious observation
questioning on
the inside in your
private voiceless,
conversation

to detach yourself
from others’
contact
.
it’s all,
felt sublime,
when the latter,
comes and makes,
itself a
difference
.

The waves roll around

in wild curls, however tight –


is the horizon.