Thursday, May 11, 2006

Sob Story...

I feel more tethered than talented, honestly.
Fear sometimes engulfs me- to the point that
Drowning in sorrow is impossible
For at times it becomes the very air I breathe
So I guess you could say I'm suffocating.

I've spent too much time tracing fine lines, only to find I'm-
Out of it.
Because to be in is to be consciously cognizant
and therefore responsible.
But I'm more comfortable shunning it
Prone to aptly act like I'm running it
When it fact I flee
Jumping out of my shoes
Torn apart; afraid to lose
But I've suffered to the point of selective amnesia
So now I block out the pain
While in fantasy I cling
Injecting myself with ink
making my pen my morphine
Waiting for some semblance of happiness
Exchanging pleasantries with peasants and passersby who swear I-
have got it all together.

I've taken time that wasn't mine
So I guess I'm a thief.
But I was hungry for the space
That would be my relief.
No, I didn't know what it was when I took it
But right now it's of no consequence
Life has disguised it in such a way
That I wouldnt even know the difference.
So I meander in dreams that hover in the thoughts
Of slumbering idealists
Wondering how to proceed
-Struggling to admit that I'm in need
When in fact I dont quite FEEL it
Maybe because I've been cowering for so long
That standing up straight seems crazy
So I only dabble in the permanent ink of certainty
So I wont know the sting when all "hope" is fading
I know my rationale is flawed
I know it makes for fear
But it's no consolation when everybody is there for you
But there's no one quite "here."


There's a breath of foul air that greets me as I say goodbye to the one who has many times acted in reality out of the scope or frame of seconds, minutes, hours or other measurements by which I am faintly familiar and frighteningly foreign. Over this present absence I move closer to the distance, dragging my fingertips through the sand of beach-less deserts and cavernous specks. I sway in the stillness, struggle in the ease of broken easels as masterpieces pave my floors and my ceilings are dotted with canvasses that have never known the stroke of a brush nor been weighed down by the burden of tarnished thought. Such. Is. Light.