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Knowing
Something as simple as a pen, a thought, a joy, a preed. It is all so simple, yet nimble; I wonder what my mind has in creed. I look forward, I look back. Which way to move, this way or that? I remember stories from when I was a child, drowning slowly, but surely, in a gloomy mile. It stretched on, and on, and on, and on; I could not see the light.
I find myself here once more, not so much dedicated to what fate has in store. Whether I am loyal or just unashamed, I could not ask for another to be blamed. I write now as I wrote before, the internal voice continues to ask for more. What is it here that I really seek? A blind, a mask, the other cheek?
Inside I say proud and true, that I know now what it is I must do. Outwardly, I look in. Asking again, where it is that I should have been. Here or there? Abstract or fully square?
It's as if I know the truth, but my thoughts are merely muddied by youth. A young mind seems to play the act, it says here that I am no longer in tact. But why should these words here I now bestow, be yet another yarn I cast in tow? I am a believer or so I have claimed. I now grasp for something to tame in frame.
