I’m trapped in a forrest of cognitive dissonance. I feel the insurmountable urge to
create without structured restraints. To practice, improve, and perhaps will emerge
something good. The restraints leash up my brain nonetheless and the needles of
pride and association abort takeoff. If it flops, then I will.
The same feeling wraps my core regarding the way I look or identify with a certain
aesthetic. If I indulge and immerse myself in a preconceived persona or external
reflection it could be solidifying, or perhaps a brief detour to try something before
putting my itchy sweater back on. But if I do this, am I eliminating whatever else I
Sometimes my body feels like an itchy sweater.
How do I explain the ache of fitting a brain into a skull I do not know the shape of?
If I remain nameless and open to potential, is that any better than cutting off possibility
and just becoming? When does well rounded roll to a halt?
A slit it cannot squeeze through. A slot shaped specifically for a few formulas of
Is foraging my own path ever comfortable? or even my own? Is digging away the
rubble as I go selfish if others cannot walk it?
With a woven branch ceiling, the sky peaks through the trees. Minds set up in solitude
just out of earshot. We all have different patterned light-leaks. My inability to see the
clearing does not constitute feeling alone,
But I do anyways.
It was fun but it was never that deep.
Socks on the hardwood floor.
I fell out of my dress
Hung her out to dry
And it rained.
A leaky faucet and a blanket that almost reaches my toes
I felt like a peach
Not fuzzy and sweet,
Just coreless, with a pit in my stomach