I don't write, I paint myself blind with words...diogenes herded...ignorance...gilded cages...filling up on beauty unleashed...free will's maddening fractures...eyes that need to smell to see...
July 5, 2017
what we ravaged of ourselves in the reeds ...
time and again we bent
lent what is to what could be
all our if only if only if onlys
the sirens and harpies
bore children
of the trolls
they roll called halls
filled with stained notebooks and doodles
most were composition black
we lacked perspective
and we were young so we leaned
guiding light inside to out
and turned then, a smile shouts
who are you when eating your own soul to survive
the stolen pieces of myself:
a shell game fanaticism
of a driven, by lost purpose, mind
who is a product of what gives
a slave to the sieves
and funnel wombs
event horizon-ed
deviant intent
the mutation
of course, is
always why
I write
I rite
here from there
where I used to be
future and luxury
of knowing
not to know
EJR ©
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