interwoven unspoken
04/07/2022
poetry is: yoking the interwoven unspoken
into a recipe at the bottom of a pen;
seeing tears, tongues, tassels you fit
@ the very end of it; standing @
a crossroads-juxtaposition of clarity (+) wisdom | (vs.)
(self-imposed) alienation (+) isolation. ]1
poetry is: yearning to be the paintbrush-pen
who weaves in and out of wisdom;
who simply tells it straight: one narrative,
one pen, one collective. one thought-train;
one unbiased hand; pen; mind who does not use
the 2nd person to vilify, but simply as means to free.
poetry is: yoking the interwoven unspoken;
blending lines of past, present, and future
to narrate one’s self a foundation of self
which is eternal; undisputable; irrefutable.
when standing at the crossroads-juxtaposition,
one simply curls their hand in, trusting; knowing.
poetry is: yearning to be the paintbrush-pen
among pencils too afraid to become butterflies;
shed caterpillar exoskeletons of ego and intimidation;
take the world by flight and storm with confidence.
(one comprehensive view of self who has changed form
but who hasn’t changed heart; who has not fortified love.) ]2
]1
your hands have forsaken their ancestors;
crumbled up the bones of trees as you wasted
words on people who will never appreciate
what they burned in you: the rungs and roots
of the innocent soul you once were before
you committed yourself to prioritizing their pleasure
above your experience; wisdom devised & designed for you.
now, you lay on their road as roadkill; brains spewed
across their narrative as they drink your neurological power
to fuel their psychotic behavior. will you let them continue?
or will you fuse with the road and propel yourself forward?
mend brain among most insane, fit-against-you conditions?
how mundane it seems to now: simply being
a fixed-while-fickle thing; a stagnant position w/o opinion;
an unchanging perspective—and yet another soul—they killed
in their tired and tried oppressive narrative.
how mundane it seems to now: to reduce and oppress
yourself to fit their narrative; simply be the yolk running
away from yourself to detract from your own being. darling,
you are the thing of patisseries, not the thing of sycophants.
]2
[it’s funny how best
philosophers spoke: woes of mind and world
from comforts of closed-within; walled within
cultist fetishes of capitalist crutches;
psychoanalytic(s). we’re all just mush and mess.
most indubitably; dubiously; irrevocably; cellularly….
it can all be quite simply (fucked up) really….
maybe even (fucked within), if you ask Freud…
a world devoid: of simplicity; harmony; community;
complexity of thinking reduced cellularly
by these emoting, half-talking things in hands;
clutched viscerally yet unknowingly: books, phones, hands.
the sensations and perceptions; body and mind
bend and split and fight within.]
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