the lines drawn draw me in as the blurring and fading gets to be too much to read... the eyes, disgruntled like the rest of my system, decides that it isn't worth my time to read right now... in the microcosm, i seem to understand a few things well, but these things twist into difficult realizations on the outside... i try to help myself to some kind of retreat from the hordes of bad feelings that wave in and out of conscious awareness, but sometimes those bad things leak in leaving me to clean up those messy words i spilled all over the place... trying to discern a way through the unnerving twitchy fingers that play on my senses, sinister inclinations that gather very little constructive energies, and excommunicating the negative forces wracking my soul... i feel the obtrusive one, and cannot repent my action from the act... my heart seems like a stone sunk to the depths of my chest, the blood and the gore keeping this holy organ company, but the beating requires something more to make the life worth living... 'follow your bliss' is an expression heard multiple times on many occasions, but i wonder how many of us get locked into finding our own version of this? right now, my "bliss" plants me in a low-wage production art job, struggling through almost five years of this, and still aspiring to do better than what i can... the pity hits quick, but my fear remains to assuage the ego with torments and phantoms that i just can't tell to 'go away'... i like the feeling of this, but will it last very long, the reckoning is not quite as literate until the writing makes it apparent what it is that this individual is... the diseased mindset splays the colors from that subconscious palette reeking havoc on the lazy mind's eye view, filtering the artist's interpretation from the projected work formed from the meat of experiential data, and this is where the thick of the writing seems to lay inside the fog... the smarmy, swarming instincts swirling about the brain in defiance of ways i first figured would work for me and not against me, the corpus animate while the mind plays tricks with the imagination's fits of Tourette's syndrome bursts of phrase into this plausible depot of thought... where all goes to be played out in some graceless display of feelings betrayed by senses of right and wrong, again the mind was gone, and the time of arrival unknown... this sticks with me beyond lifetimes, i state, a claim written in my own handwriting... the hand used by merciless wielders, and no particular rule for this kind of playing, the games of fools and magicians... the binary code of ones and zeroes, a daft direction in causality, and the pierced veil randomly thinking quickly as the individual prevails... thoughts of immortal nature linked to immoral nature... martyrs-in-waiting, their blank canvas faces awash in the oil thick dripping from the nose, as crucifixion blues affix their pose in such a way... as to fit the appeal of massive quadrants of people, the numbers lifting high slightly bent to catch the light of day, and the choice is always yours to whom will lead you away... these are the raking faking depths to which one might wield their own fate, the foppish taint of licking the paint from those cursed feet, but without a hint a shame weeping guilt raised to question... the haiku becomes writ with this continuous lack of speed between law and dream, the brain intact as the cave falls in the cracks, and the lines still blur and sway to the rhyme in fact a rhythm of pact... the absence of malice nor tact, a certain degree of the ratios pleased, and the elite down on their knees....respectively...
Thanks, khet.
