Pool Of Seven

The lies are seemingly layered like the tiers of a cake. Frosted and jointed, ornate with beautiful flourishes, petunias and dandelions. But I have been misinformed. The all too power eye is disillusioned and blinded by the light. I see it now like I knew then when it was just pages from a book and a spectacle of misguided youthful amplitude. I was a strange kid. I was lonely and my output of courage was defined in my fantasies. My choices of friends, of the people I wanted to love to the degrees of keeping everyone away. I didn’t like myself because this was not who I am but of whom I have become because of pushing everything to one side. 

Those regular tense teenage cohesion bonded in the fluid of space. No gravity to the actual facts but the raw emotional inbound train racing like a silver bullet. Those poems, man, those written inscriptions of my early connections with humanity brought forth down from the mothership. I wrote, I still write. with the fury of anger that have rusted my veins. This was my count to slowly cool my head and let me see reason. it was/is my output, my vent. But I haven’t for so long, and I could feel the steam rise and the impatience grow. I haven’t used these words in so long they feel emotionless and empty. 

Was that how I felt when the loom of suicide reached in maximum. I could see the plan and the execution. But I felt it useless gesture that If I steam right through and can get over it and move forward. And I did but what I never expected was the pain bringing in the depression. The depression brought unwanted questions and anger. And the anger brought poems, and the poems brought the release. And as long as I have the release I don’t need to worry about the depression. 

At lease this all was in my mind. This was how I felt. It’s been so long. 

Where did I go wrong? I mean I knew the answer. Everyone knows the answer. they don’t have the courage enough to change the question and ask “Why did I go wrong?” 

It beats me, literately I could feel the tearing of my skin as I go back reminisce about shit from the past. But the past is gone and I don’t need to ask those questions anymore. what I should be asking is “How can I make this better?”

I want to love someone with every ounce  of my delusional mind can comprehend. I want to loose the weight and never look back at what a fuck up I was. I want to make things better so that I can feel good when I take my last breath and can relax knowing that I made myself good and I loved and I have family. I can move forward to whatever extraterrestrial elements that lays in the afterlife of my longing.