PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I have so many reasons for wanting to get out of here.



How many fathoms? ten… Then bottom.







A s I sit here on the edge of reason, my feet circle in this stream of consciousness.



It cubes me.

All sides sheathed and fractured— well joined and aflame with warmth.

It's comfort that makes you stay.

The unknown has certain coldness with unfamiliarity.

Poverty of state and spirit denies possibility of escape or growth.

How far can my branches reach without stretching itself too thin?

What kind of roots can I carry with me if I step off this bridge to the other side?

Will he catch me if I close my eyes to the back of my head and allow this force to propel me?

Forward ever… or just northwards…



Oh God, how this hurts to think of.

What fear I feel!

Hovering without water in a sky without clouds…

when will my wings grow?

Will he catch me if my nails streak down and stagger on the brink?

Who is He?

Shall I leave it to my universe or my love?

Is love my universe or should my universe be my love?

Can I have both? One is greater, but one is everything…

it strums on the melancholy that feeds me…\

the highest note that soars to that place where I can't see the music

but I can feel the roar of the silence that follows it…

Ellipsis…

leaves the sentence open…

does anyone have anything to say to me?

Ellipsis to invite, questions to beckon…

and there I go again.

That was definitive.

A period in my life should actually be an ellipsis since it allows for more to come.

The period in my life should be that period Of my life.

But then again is it all obsolete with my infinite nature/spirit?

Is there such a thing?

He believes in absolutes, and maybe they are.

Period.

Maybe we maybe because we can't grasp,

or refuse to grasp the possibility of finality.

Does the universe end?

Our species is very needy.

I am very needy.

That's why I have to get out of here.

Get to him,

get over him.

Get to me.

Find me.

Ha.

The very notion of this level of consciousness nauseates and annoys.

You look clean, I say.

Not new, just clean.

I am music and beauty.

I am art,

I am an incomplete creator.

A retransmission of Eliot's archive in melody.

It comes with the territory and I accept.

But I must get out of here.

It feels so uncertain though- it doesn't have to be,

but I'm not good at this kind of thing.

How do you take complete charge?

I am about to displace myself and thrust myself into an environment alien to me,

without a self to guide,

because I lack the knowledge,

the prowess the intuition…

I need guidance.

Not someone to instruct me,

but just to linger in the background and sing a song,

be my soundtrack.

Let the music be an arrow.

I love color and light.

Music is paint in sound.

I love expression .

Maybe I really always look sad—gets under your skin.



It crawls out systematically even when erratic.

Order and chaos are the same thing.

Order is just chaos you can predict.

Definitions vary.

Words and words are but words and words.







Ah… not a long one or one of understanding—just escaped breath.



These are my ponderings on this heavy feeling under my heart somewhere near my pancreas.

It should be a bit more formed than it is,

but the state of not knowing make you continue living.

All the world's a stage…

make you lazy to watch it all go by.

Enter in.

Why would I want to do such a thing?

Because I can!

Besides,

what else works for entertainment more than me.

For now I shall read a book.

Tomorrow I take over the world.



The good news is that that feeling is gone.

It always goes once I let it out.

But I have a leash on it—or vice versa.



All for now I'm free!