thud, thud, thud
the note pound my senses.
it reads, thinking felt.
the spaces between
reach towards one another
only to have their grasp
thwarted upon reflection.
pronounced initials
of first impressions,
whose brevity transfigures
misinterpretation,
decays under analysis.
living contrition assumed
when death is.
i’m not special.
i was never told i was special.
i was told to do my best.
i did.
i’m not special.
individual value
compromises for the whole
estimates generalized
as a means of measure
commonality speaks constraint
appreciate the path presented
modify to better suite
accept the end
as a means to live
so i went to hang with classmates,
and i ended up reacquainting myself
with the past that died.
i was exposed to latin culture,
something of which i’ve not
experienced since i was young.
to be surrounded by such being,
infused my time with pleasant memories.
i found that the people were raised
upon a rhythm felt,
not taught.
for this,
i was witness to
platonic camaraderie.
i felt much a part as
i did separate.
do or think
what comes first?
i thought of doing something
but i can’t control my heart
or my lungs
so what is driving?
control is a misplaced reaction
to an essential chaos
i’m glad for my bodily functions
for whose thoughts subsist
life continues without thought
for those who think
detach from the whole
unity persists beyond a singularity
that tries to be more
dance
just move
find your beat
and carrying it loud
move how you will for
your pleasure depends on it
we all hear a different rhythm
and act accordingly
understanding experience
looks odd from outside
life lives apart of perception
one that distorts reality
differences shared
through a loosely
veiled guise.
that is what you are.
change if you must,
in the end,
you are the same.
memory is a touchy subject
because it has a tendency
to elaborate.
facts lived are
more adamantly detailed
upon recollection,
but during such
reflections are mirrored
the ideals of misconception.
preconception tends the
grounds of deception.
these passing faces
leave impressions.
ghosts of memory
coloured by
imagination.
exaggerated being
live a past of an
ideated reality.
don’t pull that knife on me,
it’ll cut us both.
mind yourself, but
leave me alone.
opened, you can
see what’s inside.
description differentiates
our innards,
yet that’s debatable.
shared words mean
differences elucidated.
speak my pain
with your ears,
resounding that which
is inconsequential.
