Boundaries of language separate brain waves from heart beats; one thinks and the other just does as it has always done—swayed with the wind and ebbed with the tides.
Shooting across synapses and firing electricity through neurons—the speed of which is unthinkable. This is why the mind is so full of wonder and no answers to give resolve. For every answer, the questions multiply ten-fold, and by the time you’ve answered ten, you’re staring at the incredulous faces of Questions smiling hauntingly through the lucid eyes that change from oceans to grass and no beach to separate them…
You stare with glazed eyes of intoxication and wonder if it was the liquor or you who has inebriated you—maybe both.
The pages you have written in your mind of sappy love stories long-since crumpled in the thoughts of utter defeat—self-contained and self-destructive.
The pages you thought could never be good enough because the pen she used to write flowed all too beautifully across the manuscript—so you burned them hoping to push them aside…
But every time she wrote, the ashes came together anew, like a phoenix rising from the smoldering pile of soot.
And no matter how much you tried to look for the ugliness in bad punctuation and grammar, the beauty of the flowing text outshined any found.
There is this song that runs rampant through my mind. Consonance and disconsonance are all alliterated in an all-knowing ambience of vowels. They sing of what I already know—but it is not my voice from which these words flow.
The thoughts and words and choruses and bridges all gestate deep within my lungs. They have been there forever—growing, molding, shaping, showing. Hiding and biding their time, until someone will be there to listen, and not just listen—but learn—understand.
Understand that when the ink flows from the pen that it won’t stop until the well is dry—that we will go insane until each word is given meaning and each meaning given words. That until our voice is heard, we will scream silently into dark corridors where only the ghosts of our pasts may haunt us.
Where whispers in static nights can be heard miles away—as if spoken softly into my ear.
Where the wind moves through my open window, blowing words about in the mindless self conscious.
A mindless self conscious that does not allow my dreams to make sense—dreams which dig up the past, only to get dirty. Control is inevitably lost through lucid dreaming and when the waking mind is made aware, it still allows the dream to pervade the day.
Where is the control?
Where is the control?
Where is the control?
Has the driver fallen asleep and left the autopilot on? What about the change in wind speed and thermal drafts? The rambunctious passenger who won’t sit down? The killer aboard who wants to land inside of a nation’s fear? Of a man’s fear.
My phone rings in the distance but I pay it no mind. I can’t take my mind off what is happening now. Knots of rope pass through my stomach like a camel through the eye of a needle. Isn’t that what Jesus said? It’s harder for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven and then it’s reiterated, “Again, I say to you…”
I’m not a rich man, but sometimes I feel the kingdom of heaven slowly fading off into the distance. Not becoming a reality, but being lost in my self-conscious. I feel a maelstrom follows behind me wherever I go, leaving bodies in its path.
No respect for the living.
No respect for the dead.
No respect for the coma.
A tornado of anger and jealousy and sadness and betrayal.
A tornado of exhalation and joy and laughter and self-sacrifice.
I tread on eggshells all day long to find I have made enough omelets to feed a third world country like America. The hard exterior peels away a milky inside—soft and vulnerable and edible. Scrambled, over-easy, poached, deviled, sunny-side up, or hardboiled—which one is you?
In the end, you’ll be swallowed, chewed, and released; it all depends on your preference of how you go in.
Stop trying so hard and let yourself go. It doesn’t matter where the train lets off so long as it takes you away from where you were, so at that exact moment, you are exactly where you are supposed to be at exactly the time you are supposed to be there. Even if you don’t realize it. Even if it seems you are lost, you are where you are for a reason, follow the train tracks south IF YOU WANT TO BE SOMEWHERE ELSE. Whichever road you take, it will lead you home.
And home is exactly where you want to be.
Safe. Calm. Comfortable. Relaxed.
Like a pig in a blanket.
Or a bullet in a gun.
Or ink in a pen.
Or dreams in your head.
Home is where?
The subconscious illusion of tranquility wrapped in a touch.
Home is there?
The subconscious illusion of hostility smothered by conscious thoughts.
Home is here?
Yes it is.
Welcome home, child.
You have arrived.
Author notes
I think I have posted some of this before, but I have added much more on to it if I have.
Let me know what you think.
If it's too long for you, don't bitch.
Comments
1 - 9 of 9
-
uh...hmm...Well, this is a choppy-chop poem brinking on manifesto...there seems to be a lack of concrete subjectivity (I don't know where you are going with this poem, where are the instances of 'language boundaries' or even the allusions to those boundaries?). The form of this poem is also quite confusing: block poem tapering off into a weird off-poem...please revise...
-
I enjoyed the ideas and words in the final lines but the rest is too philosopohical/stream of wotsisname for me. Sad to say my finger mistakenly flicked on your poem but these things happen.
-
Here's what I think, but don't take it too hard, I mean after all, I'm just a drunk Sheep.
It starts out very strong, the references to the functions of the brain leads one to believe that the rest of the text will follow suit some how, it peaks an interest in the fact that this is going to be sooooo original in that it will divulge some secrets about Basic Human functions and they how they transpose themselves in our mind (versus in our brain) which would be infinitely interesting.
but then, it takes a turn, it turns (for a lack of a better word) "dry" and then the length becomes tedious, it would not be tedious if it were about the original subject, and then, it takes another turn, to the personal relationship channel, and then spirals from there.
Honestly, if this was three seperate poems, all three would be really good, but combined, they trip each other.
but hey, what do I know, this surpasses anything I have written, I am by no means a Prosefessional.
No harm intended, just saying what I see in it.
-
i am total confuse.. well expression and well done..... thanks for sharing
-
No respect for the coma
Well - you've opted for critical - so here goes!
A theme of confusion and juxtaposition pervades (and rambles) throughout this overlong piece. It lacks clarity of purpose and probably means so much more to the author than it actually conveys to the reader Its theme seems to be about you struggling to find your muse and in the end you come to some sort of conclusion that you have - but .... have you? There are way too many chunks of linguistic gymnastics leaping about that seem to lack any cohesive purpose and are quite possibly there to convey some sort of effect. I doubt that a reader can seriously connect with what you are trying to convey in many of those places. If you intend this piece to communicate to others (and why post it if not) then map out what you want to deliver, prune out surplus verbage and only post it if it works. Unfortunately, despite some creative ideas that crop up now and again, it isn’t worth the time it took to read, re-read and (out of a sense of duty) write about! Sorry! -
Well, I don't want to be rude and leave without a comment. It's a bit long to keep my interest. My attention span is not that good. From what I did read I get the feeling of the comment below. It's almost like you are trying to find that center place.
-
Sounds a bit like a soliloquy to remind oneself not to be such a selfish little bitch. I totally understand and relate with this, but it's also a lesson about insecurity. So why did you introduce it with some pseudo science? I dunno. Maybe you just had to start somewhere.
Ultimately it seems to be about centering. Getting to that place where you have some sort of mental and emotional solitude and can begin to write. Sort of writing about it while you were doing it. Did you write as poem immediately after this one?
take care. -
wow what a beautiful story. very well done and touching especially at the end. pen on poet!
Creatress
-
This is amazing and awesome!!!! I loved every word and every metaphor you used. I usually can't keep my attention reading long writes but this one was pulling me in with every line!!! Very well penned!
peace and love
Adding your comment:
1 - 9 of 9
