(no subject)
Prose is still poetry. I'm still trying to tap that unknown and transform it into something beautiful and quantifiable within symbols. Whenever I pick up the pen I am the authority, because my ideas spill onto paper and exist. Existence is authority, right? I exist in this world and I'm wasting my existence worrying about it being snuffed out. I walk down the street and every step I feel like I'm walking further from my life, my center, my security or home if you want. Dread? Dead? so similar.
Everytime I pick up the pain in repetition I negate beauty. The pain jars my mind from registering the million facets of beauty I'm bombarded with. In intense pursuit of this beauty I forget the beauty and attck the pain. The pain never leaves, the beauty never emerges because with each sword slash I open up a new gash that pains me. I create a cycle that just creates a womb I become asleep in. My dreams are what beauty is but in those I never commune, I just believe it's there. Did it ever exist? And when I wake up (when i leave that level of sleep? I'm still lost. I'm still drifting in confusion, conflict and division. My shoes just become a little more ragged each day.
Everytime I pick up the pain in repetition I negate beauty. The pain jars my mind from registering the million facets of beauty I'm bombarded with. In intense pursuit of this beauty I forget the beauty and attck the pain. The pain never leaves, the beauty never emerges because with each sword slash I open up a new gash that pains me. I create a cycle that just creates a womb I become asleep in. My dreams are what beauty is but in those I never commune, I just believe it's there. Did it ever exist? And when I wake up (when i leave that level of sleep? I'm still lost. I'm still drifting in confusion, conflict and division. My shoes just become a little more ragged each day.