Penned Prison

Fury runs through ferrous, black lines
Attempting the escape of a recycled muse.
Lividity plagues the mitts and mask
As useless mutterings cloud the mind
Preventing untried concepts
From transpiring.
Only the divine can grant
The vigor required to find
The spark
That is innovation.

Pounding heads
On pearls of Persian blue,
And writhing just to reach
A valid verdict
Of violet hue,
For red, and yellow
Have faded and died, too,
Of overuse.

Spiritual Comprehension

I talk to you. You talk back. I understand the words you speak. But do I understand the meaning of them? Will I ever understand exactly what you are trying to convey with your statements? This is a true question of mortality. Do words live and die, or do words just die the moment they hit the air? Will there ever be a soul on earth that will be having the same, exact thought process I am when they hear the words I speak and how they arrange them? Perhaps there is another identical galaxy in which there is another exact form of me, typing this at the same exact time, thinking the same exact thoughts in the same exact way that I am right now. If not, then I am alone in the world in the way I am thinking, and that is what makes each and every single one of us unique. No one in the vicinity of this earth can ever understand exactly what we mean when we say, write, or do something. We will never be able to explain it in a way to which another person will get the same exact feeling as we do, because once we have altered the way our thoughts are arranged, we have altered the entire meaning of it, sometimes even for ourselves. Sometimes we will never remember what we meant by something because it was altered by someone else's thought process whether spoken or telepathically. Words can then only live within our minds, for once they are expressed through writing or speaking, their meaning dies with them, as a worm dies without the rain, a word dies without the brain. Essentially, we are the only ones who can truly understand ourselves, and sometimes we are incapable of even doing that, so in the true sense of it, all meaning is lost within ourselves, if there is any meaning at all. Surely there must be a meaning, but do we even know what the meaning is. Only a divine power can truly understand what we mean, which says there must be a God out there somewhere.

Franklin's Fear

Kite and key have failed when a filament flickers to its death,
Vanishing the third dimension and accompanying colors.
Nothing is left except suddenly audible creaks and clicks
Causing hearts to shake and veins to swell.
Eyes widen accomplishing nothing,
Only bringing hope in the endless ebony.
Skin cries and lungs billow.
Nerves force feet further into the onyx
Maintaining contact with the invisible floor.
Murmuring voices cause feet to move faster,
The last one shouting "Alleluia!" as phosphorous and friction turn carbon to sepia.
And it is discovered that everything is as it was in the beginning,
Except for the failure of the kite and key.

Rebellion

Why the need for tattoos and piercings? I am an advocate for them myself, but why has it turned into an addiction? I find myself constantly longing for more and more, and I don't know what the reason is for it. A permanent mark for something that has happened, or a longing for something I am lacking? Maybe a strive to be different, or to be just like everyone else. The possibilities are endless if you really have the time to think about it. The thoughts don't leave my mind for an instant, yet I refrain myself from giving in to please others around me. Why should I not then please myself first? Life is fleeting, yet I am second-guessing every decision I make. Indecisiveness plagues my being, for the fear that I am one day going to regret actually living my life. No career would take me covered in ink and metal. Is it better to be happy, or to make life livable? Or is life more livable if one is happy? Perhaps it is fear of living that makes life concrete. Perhaps I am pleasing myself by refraining from the indulgence of such a so-called "rebellion". It is no different than heroine or cocaine, with jitters sometimes setting in. I believe the ambivalence of this will be never-ending, and I will never know whether it will be positive or negative. I guess, ultimately, destiny must take course, and what ever decision I make will be determined by it. I can't help but feel the need to help others before myself. I guess they would call that a good-hearted person. But is it good-hearted, or is it just normal. Shouldn't everyone care about other people? I am too deep in thought to truly find the answer. Maybe destiny will whisper it to me.

Procrastination

Procrastination. Why is it the bane of my existence? Is it because I want to make myself suffer to remind myself that I'm doing this for a reason? Or is it because I don't really appreciate what I have and am longing for the ability to? Either way, no matter how hard I try, I can't bring myself to finish what I've started. Lists upon lists have compiled of tasks I have started and have never ended. None of them on paper, only in my memory. So that no one will see how lethargic I am when it comes to pushing myself. Although those closest to me already know, I still try to conceal it. But why? If they already know what and who I am and that this is a problem of mine, and they are still willing to accept me, then why must I feel the need to portray that I am a hard-working individual? Is it to please them, or myself. Is it really because I cannot accept myself as a procrastinating son-of-a-bitch? The one time of my life that I am granted an extended period of time with no interruptions or noise, complete serenity-I cannot appreciate it enough to bring myself, to force myself, to actually get something done. And later, when asked what I have accomplished, I will lie, and say that I got a lot done. I don't think there is an answer to this so far, and that makes me unhappy. This is a handicap. This is what cripples me from doing my best, and there is no way for me to overcome it or get rid of it. It is a mental, terminal, illness. Maybe, I should ask for an Anointing of the Crazy for when my grades go up to heaven along with the rest of the things I have not finished in my life. If there is one thing I hate about myself more than anything else, it is being this lazy thing that could be labeled as a human being. Because I feel like I am not worthy of being a human. I feel like I am just a shell filled with nothing, where there is supposed to be determination and vigor. Fifteen pages to write, and none can be conceived until I am at the breaking point. I don't feel ungrateful, but that is how I am acting. I will try again, but today, I think nothing will be achieved.