Just A Writer

Standard

A profound line to begin
What can I say to portray what my writing,
cannot.

Do I dare try?

As a lover on a mission to dream
Past the commencement of falling asleep from reality;
Learning to ignore the constant incessant chattering;
The noise that drives me to the brink,
I think.

As a human shell, I dwell
On the appropriateness of my reactions
Of how people take in my first few layers;
At introduction, I often wonder if he or she will be hungry

and bite into the onion;

To ignore the multiple hardened bandages,
and get to the core
To learn who I am and what I believe.

I can see, and then I’m instantly blinded;
My constant train of thought always trying to dismantle, this determined locomotive,

off of the tracks.

Ironically, disregarded as a sweet face, that no one can take seriously

As if I couldn’t possibly be anything or anybody, but I think I can;

No,
I know I already am:

An awkward talker, continuously writing,
Who gets lost in imagination;
The filmmaker of the dramatic operatic stage,

who’s recording every performance.
Where ghosts arrive in anticipated states of attention,
Thinking that maybe one day they’ll get noticed too.

But they already are, the crowd of transparent stars

with their marks: their shining scars;
The traditional seekers who claim to define society.
I am an observer of humanity, who doesn’t quite fit in:

A multiple frame thinker, flying through the higher 3-D layers

of atmospheric panels of time.
Do I live in the life of fame, fortune and

drown myself in contempt for the routine?

Or, delve into the chapters of a

Story where the Setting is created by Societal Standards;
Those postcard stamps of blue and black lines that are only intended to penetrate the whiteness?

But here I am, only, just a writer.
If you ask more than that
I might not give the same answer as the day before, or the day here-to-after 

Do I trust a vulnerable liability, capable of extinguishing everything that I feel within,

To let those in; nomads sharing the path that I’m walking,

Those who, care to try to uncover some of those onion layers that make me whole; 
Soul and all?

Sometimes on the trail, Someone walks next to me,

Another being who can handle the depths of contrasting views of reality,
Who ignores all of my first impressions and understands,
Who is challenged by the intertwining of their own universal, constant languages;
And enjoys the sweet manipulation, of the creation of history to exist;

In time.

When the moon rises,

When the tides fall back, to begin the ritual
Before the Sea washes away the day;
Hanging above us all in anticipation; blissfully alone.
A numbness soothes; lessening the intensity of the grip grasping the rocky walls,

that lead down to the abyss

Pacing myself, sometimes losing ground
Deleting the information saved within every insignificant memory
Trying to lose sight of reality, again,
For 20 minutes or less
That’s all I ask, beg, pray;
Give me a memory,

Without the fear of not being able to find my way back.

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