a distant thought of
an intimate dream where
my life depended on me
putting emotions into words
everyday,
writing something
that makes me think
of myself as a decent and productive
human being
somewhere in the herd,
contributing
trying to raise the bar
of critical thinking
in a thoughtless world
it wasn't so mechanical
so I would be on autopilot
but rather its a journey
a transformation,
always growing
perplexed yet again
at that thought of being
satisfied and optimistic,
looking into the mirror
vacillating as always
who am I today?
what will I get done?
being involved in another
facade or just flow
like water
lacking pretence,
waiting to be profound
over the baggage of rebound
longing both to be
known and hidden,
letting the significant moments
of my life
pass in little incidents
will I take these words
and dive in deep?
or simply give up
and go to sleep?
What if I had to write for my survival?
Will I survive?
