Light is the theme by which I write every single stream of thought.
My mind is a sun, I believe.
–
Everything revolves around the ideas that put me to bed
every night
I am under the illusion that I know what I know.
I sleep the doubtful self of mine away and hope it doesn’t haunt my dreams
with solid
question marks
and ideas
too large for my blue pills
to stomach through the entirety
of my existence.
–
Light is the theme by which I write, hoping to wipe away your features by something less pretty and more real.
My soul is a hollow but ornamented vase that withstands most
hurricanes.
–
I still believe my soul is sacred and eternal and there is something about that which
makes life all the more
bearable
but
they call me religious and conservative and superstitious
like all three of them
are synonymous
with everything that makes me unwantable.
But I still see reflections of God in my soul and so I hug myself,
abandoning their judgements,
and awaiting his.
–
Light is the theme by which I write. Your face is chiseled by it and your eyes glisten from within.
There is nothing beautiful about you,
but I am still fascinated by your perception of light.
–
I wake up just before dawn from some bad memory
stimulating a bad dream
like the rush of vomit through my throat
and incompletion
causing me to
swallow.
It is not pain, it is the taste of sour lemonade
that I’ve waited so long
expecting to be served by something
less malicious than the rusted
guts
on my insides.
–
Light is the theme by which I write. My God, my lover, my soul, my self, and me. The perfect pentagon of light from which I write. You are my theme.
Not piece-oriented
but rather
infinitely bound to
by all the reasons
that aren’t there to answer
the question of why we are
who we are.
beyond 