What
for self, this elusive force, to claim for otherwise; oh the tragedy—of being
so gray—and re-stitching tattoos; I found a life, that short of normal, to
claim for normal. I’m edgy—a flood of compassion, stressing this inner graph;
for most is confusion, a bruise on a pencil, guiding penmanship. We strive for
this day, a fleet of joys, tethered to bliss; to awaken lowly, as a cup to
shatter, to ponder a new thought; but this is life: the ups for downs, the ink
and nibs. What for words, to capture our lines, to explain our woes. The
computer mourns, those private memoirs, a tear intensive. We’re beige this way,
to see for skeletons, to long for roots: a tulip on a psyche, a leaf as a soul,
as immortal the dust. I crumple and disappear, filled with subtle joys, applied
through scripted gifts. It would be love, to permeate through sadness, the
lakes turned upside-down; as the sky paints, stemming from brains, that last
infraction; to chime like passion, thrust with spears, as to count a dozen
wounds. It couldn’t be, as one so hated, by one that frowns on righteousness;
and ever it is—this torn valley, where daisies grow on graves. I’d cry to see
her, a diamond on a star, an intricate algorithm; to censure the pain, as one
of authority, to proffer this gift. I died so young, where others counted
petals, and others jumped from fruits to sugarcane. The heart is sore, as
thriving for comforts, to notice this subtle cycle; as to live through aches,
as something existential, to paste a brilliant smile; for ours was crooked, to
feel displaced, eating sugar-bread. It mustn’t be, as to one to lose, a bit of
everything—as one to gain a bit of heaven; but what is joy, longing in private,
for human comforts? I ask self, stressing for answers, reaching further into
soil; to enter this space, this map of time, to harness this monster; where
hell is fields, and heaven is fields, and the two cross-pollinate. We venture
upon thoughts, to garner for truths, to arrive at unawares; for something vets,
and something is partial, to a world that proves contrary to consensus; but
what for self, as born to think, as gray as feelings?
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Existential Realities
