Imagine a treadmill for your brain. That never stops speeding up. Slowly, at first, you savor each step. But boredom pushes you faster and faster. No longer tasting. Only inhaling the adrenaline. Because unless you find the next page, the next post, the next video, you risk facing the combined gravity of reality converging upon a single point of agony. And so you scroll. To keep stress away, the roaring anxiety at bay.
I look at you everyday either way, I can’t feel the pleasure stay, envious, out of touch, out of mindful bend and brush! pull and push, trim the bush, hold back all your fears! hold back all your fears! I watch you everyday, either way I’m not getting better! tell your story state your statement, I still can’t feel the pleasure! -hold back my fears-
I write poems because it fills my world with stuff, Stuff that originated from someone who inspired me, That inspiration makes me feel this is enough, Enough to be the one who with a pen can set rhymes free, I find poetry gets famous as long as the writer isn't me.
It's just a thing I've noticed, this word or that one, Bouncing off of the walls, filling the world with Fighting, or maybe scrolling blankness in the halls.
It will all develop somehow, this poetic pointless tail, Maybe I'll be famous, but we all know the truth as well. I'll just go down in misery-not history-as being "someone," A starving poet, a musician, just another stupid useless ***.