busy pitter patters
of feet, at least
pretending
to be busy
these humans,
these flesh sacks,
place their bags
laptops
their unconsciousness
on this barnes & noble’s
coffee tables
whose chairs aren’t comfortable

yet, here they sit, beside me
amongst me
and an old
ancient, it seems now,
version of me would’ve cursed them
silently
while pretending to associate
to relate
to give a ****
for doing so,
for raising my anxiety,
for reflecting what i truly was,
at least
pretending
to identify with that narrow
window of my self

some collide
physically,
cosmically,
spiritually,
intuitively, whatever the hell you brand it

we all seek
connection,
always elsewhere,
never with our miserable
anxious selves

and if we can’t connect
we, at least
pretend
to do so
much like our riddling iphones
desperate for battery
for a sort of
charge
for life
elsewhere
somewhere else
anywhere
else rather than within

to be alone, amongst the crowds,
without our phones, our books,
our lovers, our seven dollar coffees,
our ******* egg white breakfast sanwhiches

almost as if these things
are essential to the unsavory
cravings and desires, or
dare i say
ourselves

we pretend
to work, to live
we read, without reading
we speak, without thinking,
we speak, without speaking,

“to be, or not to be.”

we don’t care for
intention
anymore
how could we?
we’re just so
un-*******-phadomably
busy
doing
nothing,

at all

just,
pretending.

-melanholicreator

You see, the water does all the things it’s meant to.
It does everything and nothing
It goes everywhere and nowhere.

Its essence is dichotomies and dualities
The shores line its gentle brutality
Infinite and dangerous - an endless finality
Sometimes still – a lifeless vitality.

The wind can push it
The earth can shake it
To understand this paradox is a risk –
Don’t take it.

A stagnant mind will see you drowned.
Producing these lines, but not a sound.
Words to be written but not to be spoken.
These are the words my soul has chosen.

Stuck
I'm stuck with no way out
No matter how hard I try
It's all in vain .
I'm stuck in this endless cycle of pain
Hope for more.
Settle For Less.
No ,expect nothing.
These screams have to be worth something
The Sweat,
Tears ,
Time I sacrificed trying
HAD TO BE WORTH SOMETHING.
Where is my win
Why am I stuck at a forever dead end .
Countless attempts to pull myself up after I've been drowning in sea of failure for far too long
Desperately Crawling with every bit of me
Fingers Submerged
In The Dirt of my own Relentlessness
I refuse to give in.





,

aside from my asides and internal divides
I stand in my prime, converging with the divine
plucking daisies in my backyard
doing backflips in my backyard
tired of trying to find gold in a scrapyard
denied due to pride and internal divides
he stands in his shame, colliding with the divine
doing abstract art and failing to put a finger on
the very thing converging all along
the growth not seen, he daydreams
but can never put it into action
stagnant dissatisfaction

Waters frozen in time
A Stagnant waters
Holding the Debris of the Past
In wrappers, Lilly pads, and used masks
So sublime.
Limited Time
You never realize how much time you have lost
Until you are "frozen in time"
From Virus Conditions to World Government Unrest
Your youth starts to shake in fear
as well as your mature part
Will I drown in a Body of Water like this?
In the Future in which I am headed?
Maybe so if I fail to keep active and vigil
and allow my soul to be ****** in and sink in Feelings
Resulting in The Frozen Ices of "Dread."

A vacated ghost town
where the dust has settled
and only the few passerby’s
poets and dreamers
stopping over for the night