I have no explanations,
no theories.
-Fate is a mystery
of death and misery.
Beauty defined it,
a state of mind,
sorrow's kind.
Grief idles in absolutes,
but nothing is certain
except for denial, it's impact -a burden.
Fate handed Beauty the hindrance
of addiction and denial.
Then tossed her into the earth
to wither, then rebirth.
When we rise again,
the poets will be
the first to face East.
Our rising Sun
will rescue us once more.
Creation will flourish
with our vision,
we will have insight
into nature.
The ebbs and flows
of our imaginations
will be free
to paint the earth.
It will become
our canvas
to adorn
as He once did.
Take a wild trip into the unknown,
a peak inside a dreamer's heart.
I'm grateful to have my tongue
to speak of fate and creation.
Creation beyond an earthly thought
conjured up by simple men.
Architects, engineers, and physicists
toil to complete a vision of aimless dreams.
There's something magical
about these men
who bring their dreams to life.
The imagination, the innovation,
of dreams come to life
is sensational to see.
Love notes to myself.
An abstract admirer
creates a secret confidence.
Notes none would speak,
words of love, enchantment.
Everything I wished for,
in paper form.
If he, a paper doll, were authentic
-rather than an extension of myself-
I'd be overflowing with encouragement.
A somber soliloquy,
spoken to a room full of suffering patients.
An invisible illness,
identified by unusual behavior.
Hospitalized for being unable to function.
A simple soliloquy of confident contemplation.
Not a soul understood the pressure
to be positive in a pessimistic place.
Parading myself in misery
and the powerful desire
to triumph over this disorder.
My mind wandered to grant my wishes,
even if they were hallucinations.
I've spoken to the dead in the depths of my mind,
took advice from no one.
I am a figment of my own fantasy,
I dreamt myself up,
fabricated myself.
An authentic being,
illuminated by the inspiration
of everything I see, hear,
touch and consume.
In my past, I was blank as the pages I fill,
today I create life out of ink and squiggles.
Are you alive today?
Are you hanging by an inch of what I say?
Listen, my heart is empty of anguish,
it's been poured out on paper.
I'm alive today,
even if my body has decayed.
Confusion,
balled up
and twisted
to untangle.
Hands woven
within the wires,
bound to break
this mental clutter.
Arms attached to scissors-
cut through each wire,
string and rope
tangled together.
Anything can be accomplished
with the correct tools.
Even feeble minds
are capable of
miraculous crafts.
The talent behind
the tattered and torn
ropes, wires and strings
is unknown.
Thoughts spiral above my head,
a twister of chaos
destroying everything in its path.
Hands shaking,
holding tight to reality.
I must face this frightening fit of terror alone,
and walk with the chaos above my head.
The burden to bear,
of an unbalanced brain is bitter,
a cold taste of fear,
a hard swallow.
Wanting,
very much,
to be free.
Lost myself in the midst
of the mayhem called my mind.
Carried up in a windstorm of word and thought.
"Who am I?" I ask myself,
trying to conjure something existential,
but crisis is what comes up, confusion.
When I couldn't find myself,
the only one left was You.
A name I could claim with clumsy confidence,
but I'll keep Him anonymous.
I stuck with this toy-train of thought, full of conviction.
"I AM!" I declare, "I AM!"
I am simply sad, sick, and desperate for help.
All I wanted was to be more.
My strings tethered
tight to a violin
humming a familiar song.
I'm your strings attached
a forget-me-not,
a mousy ear of reason.
You are the violin,
I'm tethered tight to you.
You are familiar.