Sunday, 1 June 2014

JE NE SAIS PAS, an old notebook, WHERE is time? Incoherence.

A swamp of thick sludge and weeds, 
shadowed in confusion, and, *greed

Blood that doesn't bleed,
tears stuck in my throat.
Where is this message I can neither hear nor heed?
And who constructed this bridge-less moat?

Sometimes it feels to be all pretense,
though these moments are infinite between the times of relent.

Why can I not articulate this reality?
Where is the clarity in this insanity?

*need?



CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?
Because I cannot hear myself.

Silence. A disclaimer.
My smile is real.
My laugh is sincere.
When I say I am alright I speak the truth.
Though I could not even say what truth means.

When was that switch flipped?
From being a matter of surviving months to a matter of surviving hours?

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