I find I’m always questioning answers I’ve known before tossed asunder as I continue to wonder
Why? Why? What? When? How?
Then, as now, I hold my breath always lurking in the background, my death and between then and now what to do? when? and how?
I feel strangely empty void of direction incapable of erection and yet my life is full
Which just makes it worse that this curse has no source being propelled of its own force.
The reality of my awareness the awareness of my reality intertwined, and coated with fear
I wonder, is this poem provoking or curing, as I had hoped
Then, I think about the act of writing it feels good, I think I think, and it feels good.
Aligning my sense of self (which is always lipid thin otherwise I’d have something more to believe in) with the quest for truth feels good, provides proof
That I’m worth something that I can make a difference that I can at least talk to myself in a way that makes sense.
Again I wonder why I feel different now I think I had been somewhat asleep as the poetic record can attest my mind has been somewhat at rest
Now, for no good reason my heart is ripped open my mind awash in confusion when will I be over this dreaded feeling when will I return to normal sleeping.
I feel like running even though I know that facing is better (the straight path ahead and all that) but I’ve faced it already, right? Do I have to keep going through this every damn night?
The answer is process, and process I must I’ll keep on processing until I’m just dust!
(If it doesn’t kill me it will make me stronger)