Untitled on purpose

"There's a point in my life when I look into my mind and realize I hate what I see" --Kael

Poerty...
We express with it.
But the irony is when we are so, poetic...that we can't just write anymore..
That our thoughts become our poetry.
That our dreams, become our poetry.
When words don't fill the void between what we feel and think and are..with what we want to show.

Being able, being ready..being ready to show ourselves. To be ourselves. But yet all of it is covered, all of it is masked by these words being mixed and matched together to form sentences and paragraphs.
An essay on a feeling from a concept to a picture that no one can see. Painted with invisible inks..

Realizing that the things I know and see, in me, are there because I put them there. Not because they grew from me or were always part of me but they were put there to fill a hole inside of me that was made from constant repetition.
Who knows these repeated actions?
Who understands them?
Not really anyone..

But, inside these lines this poetical theory I find this longing. A long line of searches and researches and expressions. All to find this one thing, this one person or concept or point. That will understand, that will know.
The irony continues being that as I continue to search forward the understanding and knowing thing I've searched for is behind me..
Something I left behind.
Not really an intention of mine, just an accident of habit and an incident of misconstrued pain.

Everyone should know that. Everyone, should understand that.
And they do, they just won't always admit it.

Poetry.
The textual image in my mind that keeps me standing right where I am and not moving. It's a statuesque representation of what I've done, where I've been, who's been there, and who's left after the reading is over and done with.
Do they understand it? Is that why they leave?
Is that why I watched them go and never went after them?
Because somewhere in me I realized I stopped myself in words, the blueprint for my painting and I never stepped far enough to pick up the brush and finish what I started. That, I let them go. That I let myself stay, made myself, stay.

There's a time in our lives when we will look into our minds and hate what we see...
But when we see that, we need to make the decisions necessary, to move forward...or start over again. To turn around and retrace your steps until you find where you put that mindset you hate in the hole in your being, so you can refill it with what was supposed to be there all along.

No metaphors.
No poetical mysteries.

Just you and the person you left behind so many years ago.
So you can move forward again, to the person who's been waiting to match their painting with yours.
A painting of something perfect.
Something that no words can describe or create a picture of.