I found this, poem/narrative that I wrote six months ago and in retrospect I think it think it provides some perspective into the feelings I was having at that time. The title to this post is a line from another poem written a week or two before. This narrative is a transition out of that state of mind. This is un-edited from the original. It was written as a stream of conciousness poem/narrative originally with no edits on the page, and I feel this is the form it must be presented in.
I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to read this aloud with spoken word the instant I found it. I only read it once in my head before recording it spoken aloud and you can hear my own perspective change of how the piece should be read as I re-read it. The second part I did not choose to speak aloud.
Sometimes I make so many mistakes
It becomes who I am.
How am I not myself.
I am everything I do, and it’s only
Hard for me,
When I don’t know how to repair what
I have destroyed.
I am lost in happenstance
Drowned in a hazy fog of repressed thought.
Complex fear, and delusion.
All the same I feel so clear and lucid.
A lucidity so crystalline,
so pure and sterile, I feel cold.
Its difficult to accept when one
Has tried too hard. When ones
Intentions have trespassed, and
Swallowed the intuitiveness that
Created the dreams my intentions
I am a host to devils, and I do not even believe they exist.
Why must others be the lens from which I must filter truth.
I pick up my own marionette strings and cast myself into a frenzied dance.
No one dances,
On the page, in type, in songs and in fables is the only place.
In the real world it is forgotten.
Music is something for private ears,
Its important to capture your emotion,
While it is hot.
While it is cold.
While it is fresh.
While it is empty.
Smile a little while you cry.
There are some options which are never the right answer.