Probably not very sane, but ideas are like seeds, seeds that can grow and fester, sprouting weeds, or dangerous bloom. Beautiful in the chaotic imagination, who’s only true enemy is boredom
Am I who I am for who am I, or am I who?
Such wonder sits on the tongue, in the bow.
For wonder needs an audience, clueless crowd.
Witness to faceless actors on an empty stage
A plot of hidden rythm, the hollowed rib cage
Machinations buried, mundane illusion
The living dreams that dream in confusion
All those faceless spectators, ink blot smears,
Ignorant of meanings melody they hear.
But who wonders, do they wonder which who,
Is true?
Love, I have not lived long.
I have not yet experienced your depth,
Found the negatives by which to define you.
Love, I have not met many.
I have not another to prove you true.
Not met a companion that snares my heart.
Love, I have not seen much.
I have not hoped and been torn apart.
Untested perhaps, though I know Darkness
Be it light and its storms fragile.
Oh, Love, I know not your siren cry.
Yet hope provides me company,
I accept my Dark, waiting for another’s
With the gravity of a complex mind.
Love, I know you well in many forms
But for romance I am yet blind.
Love, I have not lived long,
Yet I hope I will one day earn your song.
What is the heat behind the pen?
Often enough it is some form of misery,
often love in all its joys and woes.
Why we write, is it to express our sadness?
To let that abyss that resides in the soul
Leak out in its overflowing darkness?
Why share the bittersweet lullabies,
Those dreams that spew forth vivid words?
Some write for many reasons,
Passions as numerous as stars and galaxies,
Somehow dwelling infinite behind so many eyes.
What impassions the ink that forms worlds?
Ah, but poets we do so love to quote ourselves, to utter the words that came like silken dreams from somewhere in our minds unseen. Though I never know, the only mind in the world may be me, reading to myself the works of an insane imagination
The endings are always the saddest part, aren’t they? Regardless if it was happy or sad or tragic it is still an end, where we don’t know what may come after. The ending haunts the mind with possibility, possibility that we may never see occur. We are left to wonder what comes next, what is the future of the glimpse of life that these stories offer. The end of a story is never truly the end is it? Something always carries on, that’s just the way of things, but the issue is that our view of the story does not go on. We are given a glimpse, a momentary passing glance into a story taken from the dream of lifetimes that weave and fall away from each other like strands of string. We can not see the web of these strings, cannot observe the connections and separations of them as they progress in the cloth of eternity. It is sad to consider that we are briefly thrust into someone else’s story, the impact they have on others and the world around them, and then that moment in a story ends. We are stripped away from something important, something that can be deeper into our lives than even reality. It ends. Then we may only wonder and hope… that it is better, and never ends.
Silly me, I had some vain hope I could be noticed by someone somewhere for something. I realize that that is so very much an impossibility. There are so many others with their own issues to contend with, I’m just an insignificant drop in an ocean of problems bigger than my own. I suppose I will just do what I have always done, be quiet and try to stop myself from drowning, no one else could, they have others that always will need it more. Things are always quiet when I’m drowning… so quiet.
As soon as I could utter words I voiced my own thoughts and musings, many that others claimed to be like those of philosophers like Plato, Socrates, Voltaire, and others. As a mere child, how terrible it made me feel to think that thoughts I believed to be my own were the conclusions of those my men that lived well before me, that even though I had not read or heard of any of them, that I was unoriginal. I have no new thoughts, never could. How dreadful that still makes me feel, how pointlessly insignificant. How can I ever hope to change the world or impact anything if the thoughts I thought were works of new creation and beauty and wonder were just… shadows, shadows of what was already done. I hate that about myself… how could I ever find any pride in my thoughts. They are not mine. They are terrible, awful, painful! It hurts so badly, this feeling, I hate it! I can’t even express in words the way it feels, the painful choking in my chest. Why do I even bother.
Anytime I write anything on here I immediately regret my words. How much an idiot I must be. Here I am, putting words here for no good reason but just because I want to put… something. It’s not even like anyone will ever read them. Even if they did, will my ungraceful, fumbling words even have any meaning or affect? Probably not any meaning close to what I intended or hoped… as if I knew what I meant. For any claim at intelligence I could make I would surely be untrue.
Why do people fear death? Why hate it, or try to deny it so vehemently, why personify it as some entity of evil? Death is guaranteed, regardless of the manner by which it’s reached. Why fear something that I will one day meet, why loath or hate it as something evil to resist? Death must surely be of a softer, kinder hand than most contend. I look upon Life and though there is much beauty and splendor, life is also a canvas on which such horrors and sufferings are displayed. We praise Life yet hate Death. It is only by the role of Death that Life is made possible, often many of the most beautiful things of Life’s creation were nurtured by Death. Death is a releasing embrace, freeing energy so that it may take a new form for new life. Death is the only true liberty, lifting one from the confines of the material existence. Regardless of any religion or belief Death is an assured presence to any Life. Death is like the twin of Life, beautiful in its own dark mystery and cold touch. Why fear such a beautiful thing as Death when we do not so fear Life, it is hypocrisy, the two are dependent upon each other. Life and Death are the same, just two sides of the same face. A face lovely in its wonders, be they bright sky or dark deep, all are necessary in one whole