I'm an avid reader of books,  many different books
Tolstoys War And Peace took me seven days to read
Lord Of The Rings Trylogy just 3 days
One of those books I've read just once
The other I could almost quote
word
for
word
I read some truly great works of poetry here
Some simple with a message loud and clear
easily understood
Some long but with a rhythmic flow
the sort of poem where you cant let go
Then there is the long drawn out dirge
full of metaphors and unusual words that I don't even understand
I might read it once,  try to understand then file it under done
I just write the simple stuff,  that's what I do best
But, no matter how or what you write its all good.

                           After all, poetry is not a test ~
                      it is an expression of our humanity.

we were just two more methland residents, dreams floating in our heads.
we were hoping to prove the american dream was not quite really dead.

but times sure change and so do dreams.

i guess.

We're not the next Spielbergs
We're not the next Mansons
we're too Fu^&ed; up for that.

but maybe some of our dreams won't die.
you and I can keep some alive.

We're not the next Clintons
We're not the next Tolstoys
we're not skilled enough for that.

I'll carry the 2.5 kids if you will buy the house.
They will paint the picket fence white and we'll hide
quiet as mice but acting like rabbits.

I'm not Ward and you're not June
but this will work out anyway.

we're not the next Cleavers
we're not the next Bradys
We're at least better than that.

between the lines of conversation, you have the words. the fragments of thoughts that seep through letter after letter combination. emotion and experience placed in the minute spaces within the letters. each phrase is a cracked door. opened ever so slightly, but enough to catch a glimpse of its contents. between the lines of conversation, you have your Leo Tolstoys and your Virginia Woolfs. you have an idea of the artistry of living. you have the ability to keep breathing. between the lines of conversation, you have the hesitations and the “wait a minute”s. you have the slow, heavy “i love you”s. you have “i miss you”s and “don’t forget about me”s. between the lines of conversation, though, you also get your “*******”s and your “leave me be”s. you have relentless chasing and lonely nights. your messy break-ups and flaccid first loves. when you have a conversation, it is more than thin letter arrangement. it is response and meaning and power. between the lines of conversation, you have the words. the fragments of thoughts that seep through letter after letter combination. you have life.

how heavy the heart:
on an otherwise empty mind.

i really should think something more,
should i?

it's called experiencing a hangover
   after having ingested too much
science.

i get that a lot...
     the cool crowd wears gucci,
and the cool crowd wears
   atheism, as if they don't have
limbs, and are merely brains
    in pickle jars...

but hey! my hands are up!
i'v succumbed to the plague
of *adam & the ants with:
a nervous trill of: stand! and deliver!
which is very much akin to
the fashonista circumstance
with donning red and leather,
and whenever:
     it didn't happen in romford...
adam and the ants
   like a cold war cultural exchange
        project
making them akin to lady pank
and that rough recording via
mniej niż zero (less than zero)...
what, people party!
i see russia as: fertile ground worthy
of being explored...
      cheap sound, and the less cheaper
lives in the west-world...
come... we can be more scandinavian
with that ż writing ƶ instead.
  the best analogy concerning me
is already presented with the imagery...
   the angry microbot from
big hero 6...
            and i'm always bound to return,
fuse with the grey matter...
you have no idea about the reality of
being ethnically, well... technically: homeless.
i'm already a homeless artifact...
     i don't know why i want to
merge with the crowd,
  i guess i only thought about
unlearning the english language...
  
and you really can read a philosophy
book like doing mathematical rubrics
of arithmetic,
but unlike 1 + 1 = 2,
i can't make it as simple to suggest
that i + think = happening, being, or i am,
when there's this ergo octopus
that say otherwise...
   reading these books is unlike doing basic
mathematical yoga / stretches...
  i never know what σ i am to arrive at...
it's never a stable sum...
     it's easier to state 1 + 1 = 2
than to state a:
  you should do that,
   which extends into someone using their
body and faking a mind
      and actually doing it so that you can
waste your time before a television set...
   and be called a vegetable...
    couching...
            
it's painfully obvious that people have
an aversion to philosophy,
because there seems to be nothing about it
to equate to the systematic acceptance of
psychological systems of therapy,
the pain is that: thought should be the sole
therapeutic stance... odd, i know:
just, thinking about it
   away from the moral dimension of
making choices that magnetises thought
away from narrative...
  and how not many Tolstoys emerged since
writing war & peace...

but unlike dealing with numbers,
   we are oh so more disposed to remember
a set of combinations for 26 digits
      than we are remembering
the many combinations
involving only 10 digits (0 - 9)...
         wow... for the first time, i am actually
awe-numbed...
              but philosophy books do that to you,
and there's also that much necessary
computer analogy,
   the dark web being akin to
   the grammar circus...
to write a basic 1 + 1 = 2 with words
   can't be reached so suddenly,
it took Descartes and a human history
worthy of a 17th century...
            
which is why we have this fascination
    with mathematics
being wholly optic investigations,
    and wording things requires
feeling and cannot be
pure optic...
           how could the two systems
ever converge?
would i say 1 + 1 = 2
            in the same way as i might say
a + b + b + o + t = abbot
    or i + am + an + abbot = a + church?
mathematical language is too definite...
  it's what we say: when human interactions
are reduced to
    the basic human interaction
of asking for directions, or buying whiskey...
  
but when did we really begin
to want the two mediums
to converge?
   primarily when we took to writing ♪, ♫...
    
given ♪, ♫, there's no point
treating the two otherwise
comprehensive systems of encoding
          to be worth
a marriage that could ever consolidate itself
with punctuation marks (, . ; : - etc.)
and operation marks (+ - x ÷ √)...

   or, cf. heidegger aphorism no. 167...
how the style of aphorism encourages
writing something
in between... in the least:
               something akin to this...

quiet frankly, some call it chance
   and the odd padlina, well, a corpse...
you wait for these vulture moments
and hover over a sudden waggle of the tongue.
                    
so who could argue...
                 so much of our feelings' narrative
doesn't translate into the mind's,
within the framework of being, of consciousness,
of the unconscious...
most of our heart's narrative is likely unconscious,
as incomprehensible as a dream...
    and if this is but a myth,
then the only alternative is that is speaks
a language of auto, automatic...
                so how heavy it must be to have a heart
that cannot be translated into a narrative
of the head...
        how we're naturally **** schizoi
rather than **** sapiens...
         i said it over and over again:
i'll turn the authenticity of schizophrenia
on its head... i'll apply a groundwork of using
only one tool: metaphor to prescribe humanity with
a much more reasonable account of itself...
     given that, democratically speaking,
we cannot account for a plateau of sanity,
and a coherent circumstance of reasonableness.
    some peoplke thought that solipsism was
a medical condition rather than a theory,
others said: dualism and the shadow of dichotomy...
otherwise merely wrote a sleeping 8: ∞.

*how heavy the heart:
on an otherwise empty mind...
      
            and how the mind compensates
the lightness of having a heart
with so many theories and theoretical
promenades...

           and how unto man thus given:
a desire of reclaiming a heavy heart once more;

alas, no "leisure" activities bound to the fields of
  a bachelor status...
         run a mile as a man solo...
walk to the local shop as a man with a ring of
monogamous status...
      
i guess the problem can be solved by a simple
answer...
   do you like drinking alone?

yes, yes i do.

    that's a joke, to be honest,
how heavy the heart: with a mind filled by too
much contemplation...
the bearable lightness of being...
           a revision of Kundera...

       could it possibly be paradoxical?
well... not unless it's taken as a fleeting pass.