Inevitably and undeniably
An empty box finds its way atop the Christmas present on my bedroom table
Inevitably and undeniably
An empty box finds its way atop the Christmas present on my bedroom table
Tidbits of morsels of delight(edness)
(From the children young young children)
Tending to darkness let me free
Let me free tending to darkness
No ultimatum no opposition to this goal of recovery
That there were lesser ideals scarcely falls on deaf ears
Limited in notion, I do my best in any regard
I ate in organic bloom that I did not want less
Shows I am selfish in my own way
Winding down the clock for a specific chunk, not too long,
Of time during which to write this, a poem, about
Possibly nature
Possible consciousness
Possibly the human condition
Not knowing until the end
And possibly even after that
If we accomplished what we set out to do
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
This one’s going to flow
Not because of song
Or dance
But because I will give myself permission to say as I please
How I please
Never mind the metacognition of the piece
Or the peace
Really, because, what is peace but understanding
And how do you understand sound but by similarity?
Father, asleep on the floor, laughs in his sleep
I agree, though, with laughter
So why not laugh too
The art-craft of being able to flow
To let your words choose you like you choose them
I+ Impulsively
S/ Sensorily
Sensational
To steal the soul of language and to paste it like a beacon
Onto digital paper
Extraordinary
To think that too little would be enough
And to know that more is always welcome
What else serves such luxury?
As much as you want
As much as you want
To see-hear the words and their meaning
To feel-touch the desire of communication from within
formal
Early 17th century from medieval Latin velleitas, from Latin velle ‘to wish’.
Burning legs find my eyes watching the trees pass by me
Paralax
As the road recedes behind me, too
The eyes in the back of my head watching the past
I am walking toward a place
That will be different
And then there will be jewels in my ears
And I will hear how crystalline proper you were to me, darling
Someday I will understand
How it all came to be
That without a separate reason for each step along the path
I will run out of reasons to count you my savior
My hero and paragon,
Who rescued me from the plight of heartlessness
I find that it is somewhat a dishonesty to disregard how I lose myself in these words, for I do and do strongly
And to not consider this at least daily is a sin on me from myself
It hurts no one but everyone who cares
And the readers are there, awaiting me
And the readers are there
Written based off a true story. Poetry is sometimes my only solace and still, then, I forget about it. I must not forget about it.