PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Awareness of my existence after a sleepless night
Intensified
Tired and yet pure
Fully capable of sharing this moment with the world
Yet skeptical
Questions proposed by my existence about itself, paradoxical
But so is eternity of time and me existing in its finite interval
Truth…
Truth?
Oh you slippery monster.
Using philosophy as a guide to happiness breaks the surface of my skin
Tears the wounds created by her fingernails into open holes that will never heal
Self-reflection, you too are part of my beastly side
Your laugh reminds me of my laugh
And we hold hands to form chains so easy to break it would only take one lie
One broken promise will recreate the walls demolished by ignorance
If I had known the future I would have known myself
And in that moment when my existence is questioned most
When I am close to breaking
Not just that chain
But everything, and ready to give up on truth
In that one moment I would have known not to approach those fingernails,
Her beauty, wouldn’t have been that easy

With eyelids half closed
This feels unfinished
A would-be masterpiece that would have made me famous
A sharp memory inside somebody’s head, passed on, in books
From one touch to the next
A memory of who I was before you’ve tempted me to dive
And sink
Yelling from the ledge below how yes, the bottom will be worth it
Worth the struggle
Drawing circles in the sand, security given to me by superstition
Above, a whirlpool creates more movement
And these circles of protection are erased as I create them
Compelled by the uneasiness of turbulence, I need to feel complete
And finished
A whole, then this masterpiece will recreate the meaning of who I am
And truth.
And truth? Who is she?
An abstract concept of wishful thinking after a sleepless night, it’s two thirty
And the next minute will echo who I have become
Without her, I erect castles in these sandy waters
They fall quickly, but everything will fall with time
Another tangent to reduce me
Feels so unfinished, like a random ad-lib.
Insanity
But truth is never easy, and never tempting, the way I lusted for her touch
This must be madness, and I am reduced into that mess
Of nouns, verbs, a whirlwind of “why am I” united into a moment shared between us