Borrow
I took a trip into the deep morasses of my mind and I didn't find solace or justice. I found scrambled logic, fried frenzied desperation, great fear, and sadness like glossy pages of a magazine. I looked at myself and I saw someone with disabled connections, unable to perform with the rest of humanity. But I also saw the side that draws people in and keeps them believing in me. And I feel the pressure to commit and to produce. Keep producing! Keep producing! You have some creative charm we like.
I'm bound to so many things in my past and out of anger I attempt to cut myself loose. Please let me go, release me, and I walk away as a different person. Or if I can't attempt the impossible, I can do what I know worlds about. I have whole worlds rotating inside of me. I have a glad heart that I can run and dance and find out more about these privileges. But instead of crying my eyes out in the darkness like I actually think I should - I wait until the lights come on and then I get on my pony and I ride. He is a stubborn animal, but very loyal once he knows the burden feeds him. I step out on the shore and I look and I see an exoskeleton caught in the waves. It was my lover. He shed his body and left it in the tide for me to see. He came back to life as a being I haven't met, nor ever will.
In the distance there's a single man waiting to meet me. He's at the window of his house looking at the flowers and pretending he won't pick every one. He's unaware of the struggle going inside of me. He doesn't care at all. But he isn't ruthless he just doesn't know me yet and he has no cares for struggle. Especially the struggle of a woman. What he cares about is the bottom line in every and any scenario. A businessman's mind with a pair of broad shoulders like a yoke.
I despise him even now, but he's pulling me into his orbit. His is stronger than mine. I feel like I might get in some serious trouble if I keep being so bent on forcing my way through obstacles. But for me to change into the less troubled version of myself I have to give up a lot of my old image. No more selfies (which we're all about to puke over anyway), no more mundane bullshit, no more long talks about old problems and broken dreams. To say broken dreams is so cliché. To not realize when you're time is up is just pathetic. And I remember how I can be so cold inside. Yes, like ice, brilliant metaphor.
It's culturally unappealing to tap into anger and express it. Especially as a woman, but I see angry people everywhere I go. There's balance. Some people are angry. Some people are pleasant. Some people are quiet and cool. Sometimes people go through a hundred emotions in a day. Oh yeah I watch them. I don't always look, but I watch anyway. I notice there are some people who have to directly look at each face as it goes by to feel alert and attentive. Sometimes I don't want to look. I don't need to memorize stranger's faces.
I'm sick of going around and seeking attention. It's cheap. I can just as easily go through the rest of my life without looking for attention. It comes anyway and not always invited. Things feel like they're changing more rapidly in my life. So many times I sat around waiting for the next thing. Now I can find myself not bothering about the next thing. There's always a next thing. And I sit here and proselytize to you.
I spend a lot of time keeping my thoughts to myself, because they're too outrageous for standard consumption. Instead I sit down. I write what I want. I don't write about the truth. How can I? And who wants to know anyway? And what is the truth? And do I even care? Have I even sought it out or is it just that people are poor at lying? The truth is laid out for anyone to find. All I have to do is look at what's in front of me. The truth is I'm typing something inane on a keyboard. I'm not going to win prizes for this.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do, but it might involve trying something different for a change, but proclamations are not for me. Just ideas and then maybe trying them. Sugar is slippery and convoluted. Coffee is acidic and stimulating. Butter is rich and oily. Bread is dry and yeasty. I am not without inner ginger fingers. They feel each substance I take into my body and respond with exclamations and reactions.
These fingers want to know what it would be like to experience things in a different way. Forget about the vampires, aliens, mutants, killers, werewolves, environmental change. Now, which one of the above doesn't fit into the series? I'm a series of my own. What does that mean to me? Do I even understand what I'm saying? Frequently I don't. And I don't want to. Sometimes when I look back I see brilliance and other times I see just nonsensical ramblings or a combination. But I didn't come here as a critic.
Into the past and back again. Into the future and back again. Again and again. I see feeble nails broken into the pieces of glass as centerpieces to your table. I see how I presented myself so falsely and I'm not sure if he bought it. I worked on that character for a long time. The one who looks inept and acts like an idiot child with no real sense of reality. And with no self-defense. My greatest self-defense was applying myself in the weakest way to someone's sense of power. My confidence is solid underneath the masks and the faces I gathered along the way.
I'm not in the business of playing hard ball and calling people out when they lie or contradict themselves. Let them. I am however good at harboring a sense of superiority over people who lie and then buy their own lies, while everyone else backs away. We warn people when we lie. And people who buy lies are in my opinion buying something cheap and tawdry in the end.
Beyond all the clutter of words I found out there was a secret gift hidden there. A gift only for me. Not everyone can have it, thus making it much more worthwhile. I'm not talking about silence or meditation or nil or Zen. I'm talking about a soft wordless place I visited without a key. I found myself there and it's true that I got there on my own. And while I was there I heard someone singing, but without a voice. And it was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard, and know some day I'll go back, and I'll be able to rest there and pick up something. It looks like clover and I'll eat it, but I don't have any teeth.
I'm bound to so many things in my past and out of anger I attempt to cut myself loose. Please let me go, release me, and I walk away as a different person. Or if I can't attempt the impossible, I can do what I know worlds about. I have whole worlds rotating inside of me. I have a glad heart that I can run and dance and find out more about these privileges. But instead of crying my eyes out in the darkness like I actually think I should - I wait until the lights come on and then I get on my pony and I ride. He is a stubborn animal, but very loyal once he knows the burden feeds him. I step out on the shore and I look and I see an exoskeleton caught in the waves. It was my lover. He shed his body and left it in the tide for me to see. He came back to life as a being I haven't met, nor ever will.
In the distance there's a single man waiting to meet me. He's at the window of his house looking at the flowers and pretending he won't pick every one. He's unaware of the struggle going inside of me. He doesn't care at all. But he isn't ruthless he just doesn't know me yet and he has no cares for struggle. Especially the struggle of a woman. What he cares about is the bottom line in every and any scenario. A businessman's mind with a pair of broad shoulders like a yoke.
I despise him even now, but he's pulling me into his orbit. His is stronger than mine. I feel like I might get in some serious trouble if I keep being so bent on forcing my way through obstacles. But for me to change into the less troubled version of myself I have to give up a lot of my old image. No more selfies (which we're all about to puke over anyway), no more mundane bullshit, no more long talks about old problems and broken dreams. To say broken dreams is so cliché. To not realize when you're time is up is just pathetic. And I remember how I can be so cold inside. Yes, like ice, brilliant metaphor.
It's culturally unappealing to tap into anger and express it. Especially as a woman, but I see angry people everywhere I go. There's balance. Some people are angry. Some people are pleasant. Some people are quiet and cool. Sometimes people go through a hundred emotions in a day. Oh yeah I watch them. I don't always look, but I watch anyway. I notice there are some people who have to directly look at each face as it goes by to feel alert and attentive. Sometimes I don't want to look. I don't need to memorize stranger's faces.
I'm sick of going around and seeking attention. It's cheap. I can just as easily go through the rest of my life without looking for attention. It comes anyway and not always invited. Things feel like they're changing more rapidly in my life. So many times I sat around waiting for the next thing. Now I can find myself not bothering about the next thing. There's always a next thing. And I sit here and proselytize to you.
I spend a lot of time keeping my thoughts to myself, because they're too outrageous for standard consumption. Instead I sit down. I write what I want. I don't write about the truth. How can I? And who wants to know anyway? And what is the truth? And do I even care? Have I even sought it out or is it just that people are poor at lying? The truth is laid out for anyone to find. All I have to do is look at what's in front of me. The truth is I'm typing something inane on a keyboard. I'm not going to win prizes for this.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do, but it might involve trying something different for a change, but proclamations are not for me. Just ideas and then maybe trying them. Sugar is slippery and convoluted. Coffee is acidic and stimulating. Butter is rich and oily. Bread is dry and yeasty. I am not without inner ginger fingers. They feel each substance I take into my body and respond with exclamations and reactions.
These fingers want to know what it would be like to experience things in a different way. Forget about the vampires, aliens, mutants, killers, werewolves, environmental change. Now, which one of the above doesn't fit into the series? I'm a series of my own. What does that mean to me? Do I even understand what I'm saying? Frequently I don't. And I don't want to. Sometimes when I look back I see brilliance and other times I see just nonsensical ramblings or a combination. But I didn't come here as a critic.
Into the past and back again. Into the future and back again. Again and again. I see feeble nails broken into the pieces of glass as centerpieces to your table. I see how I presented myself so falsely and I'm not sure if he bought it. I worked on that character for a long time. The one who looks inept and acts like an idiot child with no real sense of reality. And with no self-defense. My greatest self-defense was applying myself in the weakest way to someone's sense of power. My confidence is solid underneath the masks and the faces I gathered along the way.
I'm not in the business of playing hard ball and calling people out when they lie or contradict themselves. Let them. I am however good at harboring a sense of superiority over people who lie and then buy their own lies, while everyone else backs away. We warn people when we lie. And people who buy lies are in my opinion buying something cheap and tawdry in the end.
Beyond all the clutter of words I found out there was a secret gift hidden there. A gift only for me. Not everyone can have it, thus making it much more worthwhile. I'm not talking about silence or meditation or nil or Zen. I'm talking about a soft wordless place I visited without a key. I found myself there and it's true that I got there on my own. And while I was there I heard someone singing, but without a voice. And it was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard, and know some day I'll go back, and I'll be able to rest there and pick up something. It looks like clover and I'll eat it, but I don't have any teeth.
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