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i made this. [revised]
Folder:
Journeys.
I feel like writing.
i sit peering deeply, searching.
the coming phrases, or feelings
i take what i can from them.
the revolving door, thought process in
my head, turns it's motion,
like a clockwork.
[orange]
sessions of momentum, dealing
with the differentials and significant,
impressions left, by my personal
involvement, soiled, in myself
surrounded, in a clumsy stand, firmly with
the conventional rule, of expression:
which is to say what you feel,
ambiguously, in a tortured and loquacious
visceral, manner that defies itself,
in a surreal puddle, of, for what is found meaningful
forceful reasoning, of everything
to bend and fragment, to expect understanding,
my thinking goes astray and i undertake,
with passion,
the rambling of talented mastering,
like i know me, and you have no idea
what IM saying exactly,
except for all the sense that IM making
you secretly never ask me, to share my intelligence
so that you yourself, might wind up, eye's opening
salvaging the philosophy, from your own inner sense.
but admiring, the points i profess
i find myself, still,
lost.
questioning without answering
makes life a sui-cycle,
so learn to live,
and bottom line,
above all,
take nothing for granted.
[learn to swim]
~the poet, christopher
