loosing a grip,
we once crossed,
It seems my dreams bypass me in the express lane.
I’m just looking for exits.
I want to declare a personal war cry of the spirit.
Doesn’t every man? To stomp on earth’s flat soil, to chip boulders, to build, to destroy, to create.
I’ve stifled myself to suffocate parts of my spirit. Parts I wanted to edit. What “I” is this? Is this the “I” that must keep par with social standards and a personal level of status in my own social image?
What do I think about myself in a reference to a society?
What do I think about myself in relevance to family?
What do I think about myself in respect to my story?
Who am I in my life?
I may never have children to care for me when I get old. I may never get old. I may never fall in love again. I may never experience home with the love of my life. I may never get married. I may never amount to a social achievement. I may not write a best-selling novel, or anything significant. I may never see the scars fade from my skin. I may never see what my body can truly do.
I want to feel a groove. A “yes” in what I’m doing. A purpose. A connecting factor. I want to live naturally, and not with any sort of framework template.
I seem to be uncovering my own structure, foundation and form, like fossils and bones being unearthed from the grounds that hold a cohesive formula of body that is the spirit of my life. The spirit through my lives.
I am plagued with a perpetual bloom that I must pluck and transcribe, or else my mind sinks in layers of thought, weighing pressure on my brain, my eyes blur and skin heats up… I have always known this indescribable muse that is the fire of my insatiable inspiration.
I must keep uncovering seeds, uncloaking ghosts, unmasking monsters
a table for one makes a quiet party.