witching hour existentialism
i start with others' words amidst the void of my potential and i shape them as best i can to best reflect my mental
my every thought and action squirms from pen onto the page and there it lies entrapped
exorcised and then refined inside a gilded cage of aural waves to find a path inside another mind
where in shaping foreign thoughts, it can unwind back into its natural state.
from thought to pencil to mouth and once again onto the streets and through the air, denting your senses.
i stretch imagination on the rack and head back to the days of wracking brains for ways to partake in the pain as inspiration
and using it to emancipate all the cancerous hatred tainting the sacred resting places of my saving graces.
inside an abstract space, my soul resides and waits. it relates with the melancholy nature of the words springing from my tongue
with patience, i impart how i cannot both hide behind my lies and also turn my eyes to the horizon to find what lies there.
i hate to think that all i am is the amalgamation of everything that i've ever faced in any way, be that direct or indirect.
how can i know myself when i'm comprised of endless factors
endless words in endless chapters jotted down in the great hereafter by a careless god who neither knows nor cares about the figments born within his ever-present profound slumber
and i speak, bereft of words or worth or anything i could throw myself inside or possibly die for
no reason to live, no reason to die
no reason to ponder about this shit because we all just live to die.
and yet, i don't accept that lying down or standing up.