I walked a mile with pleasure;
She chatted all the way;
But still left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.
I walked a mile with sorrow,
and ne’er a word said she;
But oh! The things I learned from her
When sorrow walked with me
The faces we weave
This tapestried headdress upon the height of my existence metamorphoses to fit the occasion. The rooms of life change as does the mask worn to show the person hope to be presented at the present position of sand, or time to the layman. This face doesn’t begin to show the sides of this polygon.
Movement into new worlds caused new masks to be invented; green pastures are invented for mask removal, relaxation from impersonation of self. When you look at me what do you see, what you want to or what I allow? Do the two combine at times to create a mesh of persons encompassed in one? Encased in face-concocting we continue to build veils of brick to shield the extensive horrid view with face-paints of faulty framework. How can one so stable morph at a dime drop? Do I do that? Do you do that? We all take part in the dance of the masked so stand atop your table of despair, your table set in the presence of thine enemies as you blend as an impostor, so continue to blend and lose thy self. When you set your eyes upon this shell you see the mask that you wish, not the mask that is there. Very few take time to reach past their perception and dive into the reality of personality. In your eyes I am what you mould me to be when in most cases that’s not who I am. Due to society we constantly stand on the brink of transformation unbeknownst to ourselves because of typecasting. To you who am I? To me who are you? The answers to these questions continue to change as we seek a redefinition of ourselves through mask creations, new masks are formed as we encounter the scenery of this life, whether the scenery positive or negative; a new face is moulded accordingly by you or the beings you come in contact with. So be conscious of what mask you wear while I sit dreaming of the day when we don’t have to wear masks at all….imagine that….imagine that….imagine that.
Where am I now?
Where am I now? Not where I want to be but supposed to be I hope.
I am therefore I breathe, I breathe therefore I live, yet at times i do not exist. See, existing is not necessarily living I’ve found.
Many exist as the walking dead as i do at times to escape just living.
It kinda makes you think why escape just living?
Well just living isn’t always just, at times it’s just insane or it’s just pain, but the pain and/or insanity are often justified as just life.
I am prey trapped in the snares of just life, hoping to be freed by just death,which many fear, but I reply it’s just death.
At that point I am silenced by a just life that I enjoy though painful.
Pleasure rears it’s beautiful head more often than not to remind me that a just life must be accompanied by just living, yet at times i still wish to just exist, encouraging me to just live. See at times I wish to just exist, but that encourages me to just………..live
I stand in the forefront of this race, though my race has four fronts all masked, each solo hue all adapted from the fourth. I am not strange. Though my life is an open book that began with chapter 12 and the preceding chapters are charred on the charcoals glowing at a furious four fifty one Fahrenheit. Is this the height of my being? Am I being too abstract for laymen to catch each parable thrown into the garden of tombstones with a lack of shielding from smooth stones, laymen? I stand alone in this old brick house that sits atop the highest molehill that each mountain you see is made out of. I am not strange. Yet I am drawn to the pencil that draws my perspective in a strange fashion. Is it strange that I enter the shooting range bearing arms that project phalanges from each palm, when all along this long shot at living the nineteenth psalm has me sweating bullets perforating each moving target. Stop moving, stop moving unless multi is the pre cursor to your direction. Have I lost direction? Have I found the strange in my direction? Though the range of the strange in my direction floats ghost-like clutching the angelus, I am engulfed by the patience I lack to operate the knob turning to change stations, yet I am yearning to change stations.
I am not strange. She had plans to follow my footprints that I left in duration sands, but the overwhelming wave crash of my emotion washed the path away. “ How can I follow if they’ve washed the path away? ”, she screams. She wondered why the path now was only walked in her dreams. Am I too late, or is it too early to say? See where I stay the walls close in attempting to box in this poem, but I can say at least she knows…
I am not strange. Well, is it strange that the ‘I think I cans’ and ‘I think I coulds’ and the sun only shines when I sleep? Yeah, it’s strange that the sun only shines when I sleep. Am I asleep now ‘cause my shadow is cast on the sidewalk street from the sunshine, and pinholes chase my eyelids from the sunshine where darkness burns through as I sleep. I sleep on cloth-covered tables that rest on the backs of goblins that waken when my eyes close to snatch my dreams. They catch my dreams thrown from their incubator where I hatch my dreams.
I am not strange. For two-and-a-half years I’ve been voluntarily locked in my locks as an old shoe box, airtight, the air might hold the key to each lock to be unlocked within myself is a task within itself. She seemed to notice the burial of my into my breastplate; not hidden, buried, resting.
I am not strange. Though the sun only shines when I sleep, I am not strange. The moon glows as it walks and talks with me, hands clasped around my wrist, but every recap of this list insists….I am not strange. I am not strange. I am not….strange.
Lol, eeeeeh. I know I said I’d be posting a few thoughts from a younger me but after reading some of the things I wrote. I’ve decided that they’re too embarrassing to ever see the light of day. Enjoy your day. Sorry for any inconvenience. You’re still ugly