exhausted

exhausted;
as if accosted
by emotions
not my own
and yet they're
always of my own
construct. things are
what you make of
them and other
sing song lyrics
that echo dully
in my mind to
-night the light
in the room is
harsh, following
me, falling upon
me, blinding me...

take me away,
to the cave by the sea,
take me away
take me away...

refrain.

chorus.

repeat.

chords or
cords - no
style of his
own, the poet
clown concluded
circular circuits -

...all caught up and
self-aware.

losing the
images to
-night.

still sometimes
turning to stare
back down the
path i've already
come instead of
peering into the
unknownable
future i head
toward. the path
goes into a forest
jungle mix - deeper
and deeper and the sun
doesn't penetrate all the
way down here and i see
the path heading further
into the heart of the
future.

heh. i'm so silly
sometimes. can
make myself
laugh too.

i've forgotten.
i'm forgetting.

maybe it's just
exhaustion. yeah.
likely. need to find
balance maybe.
or something.
and quick.

seeing the big picture.

forward.

walking down the path.

not literally. not tonight.

publicly displaying emotion in
poetic form - being me.

this living constantly in times
other than the present - is it
inevitable? by choice? more
comfortable?

i feel like i've poked my head up
out of the water for a moment
to experience time slowed
down, sharing it with an-
other being - other
beings - and now
have to get accustomed
once again to swimming
backwards and forwards
in time underwater as it
were. the turtle is at home
here.

crazy analogies, but no, not
crazy. honest, i hope. and maybe
in today's world, in today's age, that
is crazy - being honest, with your-
self and with others.

the lone astronaut
exploring the cosmos,
surrounded by vast
voids of nothingness
that exist in some
corners and pockets
of the web of matter
we collectively call
the universe.

one verse.

one (phone) call.

one number.

the tragedy is that the
astronaut more often
than not sees majestic
things that defy words to
describe them but has no
one to share it with. he keeps
it in his mind, though, lets it help
forge who he is in the end, the
collection of deeds and thoughts
who make up who he is. for someday
in this universe or another he might
have someone to share it with or might
eventually come to terms with the fact
that being free-will beings we're all in
this on our own. there are no guarantees
from other human beings. you might get
lucky and find the match that works the
best for better or for worse, but there
are no guarantees. not that i've seen.

so what is love? is love that guarantee?
knowing for certain? love requires faith
too.

talking to myself.

focused recollection.

21st century space-man poet.

can he risk going back to earth?

will the crack in his mask fix itself w/time?

blackholes aren't the most powerful thing in
the universe, it turns out.

the mind of some men can deny the effects
of mass, dense gravity pockets.

or so he tells himself as he floats through the cosmos...