Sunday, June 23, 2013

Tumultuous Youth, Yet No Proof.

Good looking people come over to me.  Let me see how I compare.  What I was before made me so lost and now I wonder if it's better.  Make use of the self abuse:  get loose of the false proof.

Scratched Upon the Wall:
You are seeking integrity.
You want to be genuine.
You want to stop scaring yourself.
You want to say you are not alone.
You want to mean it.
You wake up alone.
You choose to be lonely.
You know you are growing.
You know that dog growling.
You know you are getting better.
When a ball bounces in
through the window
it doesn't seem like you threw it.
But you did.
You threw it.
And you caught it.
If you keep throwing it
you'll keep catching it.

I'm trying to keep up.  I try to better myself.  I try to destroy myself.  But which one feels like the right path?  Which side of the wheel makes me tense?  Giving up or buying in, it all seems to make the same feeling.  There is a way to just walk out into the dark and know that the bad is good.  When the pen runs out of ink it has to be because I need to stop writing.  When the bike just quits it has to be because I should stop riding.  There is pride in the loss and the gain.  You gaze upward while the nothing comes down.  I have no idea about the ideas.  I tear myself down because I am arriving.  I get somewhere and it is no where but where I've been hiding.  I'm lost, struck dumb.  I'm convinced of a luck numb. If I can manage to be sincere about where I am then I can start losing what I'm not.  All the details in the human world do not add up.  There shouldn't be as much wit invested in the trembling objects lying around my memories.  Think of the moment when you wake up:  Follow the paths into the wood and make no apologies for not seeing the good.

Sincerity pins down what I lack.  Pins share with me the spineless back. My finger probes where my spine used to linger.  A back bone all asymmetrical while my self doubt lies antithetical.  What I think of myself is pink oil, never to mix with the green vinegar of what others think I am.  I used to sail but now I won't.  I've proven I fail at how I won't.  To who I am what I am where I am:  the crew got lost on the sea again.

The want for objectivity drives me wild and a young dog canters up to me from a dark alley keeping his steps in line with the previous ones I took.  My skull is the border of a distant country;  bound within lies something foreign.  I might just walk out on this.  I might just go out of my mind.  Too much thought, so overwrought.  Please lay me down safely and make sure to tie the hands; for these things do not follow logic.  Brindled and bridled, eloping and loping.  Tearing across a landscape bright with darkness.  The moon behind the ocean, so far away yet closer still.  I think of you and I get happy.  I think of you and I tremble.

Junky at heart, yet no drug to fulfill this need.
I'll leave it alone for now; I'll just lie as an amalgam of limbs, parts, and textures unbound.  My fingers entwine the hair upon my head as though each strand is the edge of a cliff.

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