I must be human or sick or alive.
In the sadness, I must be reality, a space to calm the storm. The unpaved
connection, the defacto, with another enjoying the benefits. Spaces blurry, I
walk to self, I ask for assistance. I fell into a dungeon. I woke up a spirit.
I ached for the skies. Some lock was picked. I strum the violin. I cling to the
tuba. To shake and vibrate—a lover’s invisibility. Thoughts adrift. Aches so
close. Palming seaweed—looking into the ocean—partially losing sanity. Aside
waterweeds, needing a seahorse, into the music you bring. So often the
excellence, to fall so radically, with nothing to hold but prose. The
uselessness in me the purposefulness in time, the complete contradiction. By a
gateway, like a drug, to want what never persists—until it’s forbidden, like
the tragedy of existence; by the epitome of dumbness, to have closeness, to die
with pride.
