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It Just Is
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Old Aimless... wondering...
Nameless...
Like a twisted stanza teetering on a fruitless verb.
Wondering where I keep these words
That leap absurdly into flowing death.
A pen to trace my life around a paper wrinkle.
Caressing every crevice of the lifeless sheet
And breathing colored bursts into its mindless lines.
See my feet
Struggling in time.
But catching rhythmic steps
To dance around the tree bark
Where I etched my little glee mark in the dark.
Rhythmic mess
Begins to find its way
Into the Saturday of introspection -
Where the recollection of my vacant sections
Strives to reach its underneath
And grab hold of its imperfection.
Going now on Stanza 5.
Taking wicked turns from comfort zones into unknowns.
But here inside is where I feel the most alive.
My wicked Stanza number - Fuck!
I've spilled the ink all over every page.
Who now, can assuage my thouhgts of rage?
Who can pain me til I vomit from the stomach choking on an inklet of a fear.
Who can rearrange me from the mirror image of myself and nothing else?
Hurt is to what I revert
When crafting fantasies of getting rid of everything that's bad for me.
Every earthly fallacy that strives to probe inside my soul so savagely
To decimate and damage me.
Making kerosene of my own thoughts.
And fueling them with all the nothing that I got from something that I never sought.
As if to say...
My ghost exists from day to day without a path to trace its trail.
Battered from the cycle growing ever frail.
Sinking into goalless realization.
'It just is.'
Why??
Please instill in me a cry that soon explains my every pain and lie
Or else I'm forced to wait and die while still retaining blood
And breathing floods of weightless sighs?
Why then, do I seem an aimless poem?
A grouping of some seperate letters
Heading down the endless page
In hopes of finding something better
On the way.
Still, though, finding circles at its end.
Fading purple ink that seems to blend into itself
And soon descend into a spec of micro-pen
Drowned in seas of white over again...
