2 times 2 is four, as my life path always wonder if I am on the right path wish I could calculate my path, extract the unknown prove it with words and numbers, not just inner knowing and tarot cards math is more believable to the severed body I use other means to understand my body holistic, artistic, there's always another way deterministic, statistic, no place for the grey calculate how best to waste your days
In my Dreams aliens invade. I hide with people I barely know. We seek solace in each other's humanity for fear of the unknown. In my Dreams I fly over rooftops, over unsuspecting heads who go about their day as usual. In my Dreams I am transported, abducted, and chased. But in my Dreams I am me. I am lost. I am afraid.
When I wake static lingers like a long lost lullaby.
You can think and shout, to solidify yourself and enforce who you are and what to do. Or else you invite the liquidity of your progress.
I have an attention problem. And a reluctance to deal with things that hurt me.
I have an internet addition, an avoidance of confrontations, a lack of will to follow through. Am I air? Evade the senses that bother you. Coast and coast.
I write to hold myself in one spot. To put my focus and attention into the repeating letters I know in patterns that form the words I know. My function is to imitate and apply here to the best of my abilities. Machines can perfectly imitate and apply but it is the eyes of a person to perceive and feel.
I am the owner of the actions. I could possibly not own this paper or this pen, but I have paid my attention and actions into this. The fingers, wrist, eyes, tendons. I am the puppet master of this stringed body I inhabit. Without me, this body is a shell. Your life, moments and sense of self are precious.
I am cold, lonely and bored. My confidence in self hasn't been awarded so I don't try. Where are my rewards? Where are my victories? What do I want? Can I stop retreating to my slumber and solitude? Quietly and slowly existing.
I beg for freedom. To venture out. To see and touch the dark side of the sun. May that convey.
It was supposed to be for handwriting. But I guess typed it. I wrote and I posted this. 2 actions right there I can own. Bravo me.
I love the person I've become/but I hate the person I had to be to get to her/ I wouldn't write the younger years out/for fear of who that would shape her to be today/that is you would find a completely different person/still bathing in lukewarm water/or lost at sea in a turbulent trapped mind/unaware/and yet I wish I could pick and choose/to remove those images, those words, the fighting/not all the bad/but the biggest of these./Who would she be?
Do you ever wish you prevent certain things from happening? Who would you be now? For better or worse?
unravel, untied, our love my love has died it was yours then mine, but now it rests in pockets of time pockets of sunshine, rack my memories to re-find recollect your light, re-experience your mind maybe if I hold on to it tight enough, the frequency ill be riding on will re-attract you back, to re tether our hands together again maybe that's too idealistic, maybe that's against the laws of physics maybe I am just as stupid as this dream is maybe I am broken for a reason I don't know, I just thought it was special the most saturated jewel tones I don't know, I just thought it was something the most beautiful to the most unknown
how frightening, to forget the lyrics to your favorite song how frightening, to get lost in a place you call your own t'was horrifying, not having things under your control horrifying, being pulled back as you try to crawl
the books were wrong and the movies lied you weren't a storm, and i didn't cry you were an ocean silently seeping through my boat and i was smiling, thinking above it i could float
it didn't feel like 8am on the first day of class but a 4pm sunset on an empty room so vast my mind was in shambles, looking for an answer no word in the dictionary could my heart ever muster
and what was my sheltered being supposed to do with all that i've ever known suddenly untrue my peace was shaken, i couldn't move forward the reality of you has rendered me coward
The poorest man would say he's rich in heart, The richest man would say he's poor in spirit, The happiest man does cry in secret, The saddest face laughs when no-one is looking, The patient man has no rush to death, The busiest man hasn't got the time to drop and die, The dreamer longs to fly so high, The insomniac buries his head in the dirt of hopes.
So what of me, in the list?
I'm the poorest when it comes to being romantic; but rich in my words of flirt. The richest of all my written love poems; but the poorest in having a love to share them with.
I'm the happiest man when I cry myself to sleep in secret; and truly at my saddest when their eyes are no longer looking at me.
I'm patient on my morals, that keep me separate from death; but at my stress, I rush into the thoughts of just dropping dead.
And I could dream a thousand times of wanting to fly; though the insomnia of my creativity, is buried in deep thought.
All that you'd expect me to love, I'd surely hate. And so I'm unknown to the actual truth of many peers. Who would know me by name, but never my real title.
What is Poetry? Who knows? Not the rose, but the scent of a rose; Not a sky, but the light in the sky; Not the fly, but the gleam of the fly; Not the sea, but the sound of the sea; Not myself, but what makes me See, hear, and feel something that prose Cannot: and what it is, who knows?