We are a line of black and white, Numbers on our faces; I never learned the rules quite right I just know we’re in our places: A blow of wind, we all fall down, Holding to each other; Dragging each his neighbor down, Neither finding cover
Loneliness whispered to me There’s nobody watching you Nobody envying your smile Nobody smiling at your tears Nobody mocking your feelings Not a single soul belittling your fears So, breathe easy, hun And it let it be Loosen that knot in your throat And set your grudges free You can be mad, that’s okay That boiling rage is weakening your heart Punch something if you want to Don’t let it burn you inside I got dizzy and grabbed the sink When my eyes brimmed and blurred my sight My tears dragged weight out of me Like a snake slithering out of its own skin And I stood there, sobbing A weightless shell of dry skin Torrents of memories flowing into the sink It just took a whisper from my loneliness To unbolt a storm of memories That I concealed with chaos From the courts of the world.
surely life would be easier if i could speak without questioning my voice think without examining my thoughts act without wondering what motivates me… everything i put forth is subject to a three dimensional inquisition am i right am i wrong am i pacifying am i blowing it all out of proportion… ah. to attack without regret without anxiety without a second thought to conquer without wondering why.
in these stupid times we are in…my resorting to a very simple adjective for a complicated matter…i follow my heart, as always…listen to my instinct, as always…but cannot quiet the chatter of voices within…. as always….
Behold the wheel as motion incarnate. Inventor of the metaphor. Roundation is its pride, spokes the whispering of its ministers, its axle the secret grief. Turning until the grease dries up, then burning.
A mechanism, its gears a-turning. In thinking, wheels turning, turning. Spheres of influence, around, around. Circles have no need of ground. Sanskrit chakra has a sound like wheels knocking cobbled lanes. Strike and clap again, again. The arc, a portion of the round, its back is bent. It makes no sound.
The curve that sneaks in fluidly all paths and motions, blunts the angle, rounds the bend, transcribes the swing. It does its thing. It snugs the rim of hat and crown. Same as same when upside down! Once gone, just wait, it comes around.
Self, the center of conception, the spokes relate in rays the scenes. The never was but could have beens. What comes around, will go around, in startless parts, no stops or starts. It turns upon its secret grief. The axle happy in its grease. How does it make its way, by feel?