As every new piece falls into place
it's almost as if every new spectacle
makes the world spin a little slower somehow,
the buzzing and humming of
everyday life
grow faint.
The birds sing a little softer
even populations an ocean away
calm themselves
to listen.
New thoughts are crawling, picking through your
nights and chest in every intense
instant that you're silent
knowing that the only fitting conclusion
is when you
melt and burn
everything in reach,
in thought,
in sight.
To forge a new beauty in the
ashes.
Untouchable in it's eternal glory
that it strikes like lightning inside you
and pulsates like a sore exhaustion within you,
burning it's message into the minds
and throats of all who encounter it.
The moment you begin, it will
grab you by the collar, draw
you in close, demand your
attention, and brush away reality
until...
the words are all you know,
the feeling is all that dwells as an epicenter,
your actions take spark and ignite like sporadic hellfire,
consuming your once well known existence.
All because...
the pulsating force inside you
ripping you apart
is too powerful to hold inside any longer.
A parasitic longing engulfs you
the nature,
the emotions,
it clasps itself
and secures itself
to you.
Hook.
Line.
And sinker.
And as you ponder its cause,
its hectic reign,
you decide you want to recreate it,
if you could only find the words...
or even the sense to do so,
and to understand why.
It's gnawing at your conscious
and disrupting your curiosity.
It's peaked,
and there's nothing there
beside you
under you
no support or basin
to catch it when it
pours out
and overflows.
Wasted, covering the floor.
But you're not too far off it now, are you?
Maybe.
You KNOW it's hard to wait for something you know might not happen.
but
can you make it happen
with the shear thought?
Or will actions have to take place?
Something that will have to happen.
Some things that you've never attempted.
Or some that haven't even
cut across your morals.
Knowing, whenever you begin,
it's as if the world slows down a little
and listens
and waits
and waits
and the few uninspired phrases you scribble
down in a feeble attempt to latch yourself into
a safe spot in a lucid environment
they stop coming.
And you freeze.
And it blurs before your eyes,
which twitch,
suddenly unable to decipher the clever coding before you
that you don't even comprehend what
you yourself are writing
what you're thinking
what you are doing and what you are
putting into motion.
And that same rhythm that once came so easily
that once took you by the hand in a delight surprise
beating in sync with your innocent and glorious heart
MAY BE the place that catapults you
somewhere where nothing matters
or where nothings mattered in the first place.
A realization into a new universe
where it was simple, except the page in your hand
and your willingness to express
and your subconscious will to absorb.
Now?
Every letter, every phrase,
every spoken syllable even,
has a hollow ring
that used to ring so true
populations an ocean way
stop to listen
stop.
to listen.
But all they hear?
Is you
fall apart.
That pulsating force?
Is trapped behind the walls of frustration and ink
tearing at your seams and
shredding your sense of being
your sense of knowing yourself
collapsing you
immobilizing you
right to edge of it all,
and then it reconstructs you
from the inside out.
Every new letter
makes the world spin a little slower
and your diseased and revolting struggle
last a little longer
and makes you ponder:
Does this sound like thunder?
Like roars of oceans and seas of innocent cries?
Of suffering
and injustice?
That God intends this all to happen for a reason?
Thin echoes in the distance,
echoes of a truth
no longer worthy of being heard
ring true
but hidden.
Does this look like freedom?
or right words in wrong places?
Craving life from
within their blue lined boundaries
inside homes where they'll never belong
where they'll never be searched for
or discovered
or interrogated.
A secret that's not so secret
under blankets of mangled beliefs.
What we thought we knew,
is all wrong.
So what do we know?
Does this feel like an earthquake?
Do you reverberate every syllable in your essence?
A population an ocean away
stop
and wait
and listen
but what they hear from you
currently
is a million words that escape
your gaping mouth
when all that is truly coming out
is a sick silence.
I sort of wrote this for somebody, not that they know or that it matters. I write for people a lot. Bleh,
Also, my first real attempt with a free form style and it is my longest poem thus far
