This ebb and flow of the words finding me
Or not finding me
More often not
And then trying to piece together what ideas are swimming in my mind
To piece them together
Because they are so unclear that God forbid they be presentable at the outset
Fallen on an island
Is the significance of the location any different
Than falling in a forest
Or in the concrete jungle?
These abstract notions of things like Systems, and Infrastructure
So hard to grasp, yet it seems like every teenager is due for a wrestling match (with them)
For some reason we do not give our youth concrete problems to solve
That they could do so much better if they were given so
And that I may still be considered youth
Me, in my thirties, young, seems laughable, having been young my whole life
That now I am older than I have ever been
And that this statement will always be true
You don’t grow young but I feel like we should all try to
But perhaps that is just more arm-flailing
Something I have been fond of against my will as of late
To spit in the spittoon and not hear the resonance
Because the money doesn’t want me
And the money doesn’t want my skills
And the money doesn’t want my soul
Or maybe I should feel lucky
That the wolves are not gnawing at my bones
But they do! And do they not?
This nagging nagging from nowhere to make money, produce, labor, toil
Toil toil toil
I don’t want to work in a lab
That’s the be all end of it
And I’m putting my foot down
I’m not getting a job in science
(Unless it’s really in writing, who cares what it’s about)
I want to be employed in the arts, in the creation
The industry name: Creation
Wouldn’t it sell better then?
But to rambling I seem to have set myself
And to no productivity it seems to come of it
As for grammar, I have had a dearth of it in the late
And I don’t know where to go for addendums
Your heart I wish to grab
It’s how I shake hands
But so many recoil at the sight of me
So maybe we just read each other’s words for now
