Today, i flit through a world ; hungry for identity . A touch or a glance of familiarity , all is still for the moment . A moment lost , turbulence stream in . Maybe .
A patch of dirt , tilled and unburdened ; hunting grounds and feeding grounds . All the same toil .
Fearful . Lines drawn in sand , plundered by tides ; swept in time . It is I . Built and shorn .
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I dont want to bother you. But i find myself thinking about a great many things. Maybe they are worth saying. But there are no words.
Poetry is an imagination. A projection of words. The stillshots i have, they are of no consequence.
I saw this movie, about racing in the rain. Always the present, never the past, never the future. How much of what i feel colors it all.
What i want– the way i want– is never the right way. I was always the hard way.
If i talk to you like i talk to –, this would be the end of it. But it’s not, is it? There’s always a reaction, a counterbalance from the universe and its laws and bylaws.
Writing this would have very little effect on me. But what of the energy it has unleashed? No words of man can ever be measured, save by its intent.
I do not come from a place of love.
There, i said it. I believe it. I know it.
These thoughts are smoke and mirrors. Pretenders.
shifting 