Two Believe (draft/unfinished)

Can you believe it?

Always, you know that. Consternation isn't nearly as effective as acceptance.

One day it'll blind you, and I'll be here.

Oh, I wish you wouldn't. Can't we get along for once?

Then refrain from baiting me. You know I can't help it. I'm not the cat, I can learn.

Can you? On what is this assertion based?

Well, it's based on my conviction. Do I need anything else?

You might not, but I certainly do. Isn't that important to you?

Of course! But I've got to come first. Who will benefit if I don't? I won't, and how will you know different anyway?

Your words may not be clear, but your conviction is. I'm sorry for pushing you. I should know by now that the cause is floundering, if not entirely lost.

Thank you, really. Is that the first apology you've given me? I can't recall a time...

Oh no! I am always and forever apologising. My tongue wags from the continual strain. But I do not blame you; someone has to wear my shoes. I'm happy to take the pain.

Again with your shoes, why don't you see someone about them? It might keep your tongue in your head long enough for you to speak sense the next time it comes out. I never understand you.

Who would I see? Who could I see? Impossible. My shoes and my tongue are perfect. You'd have me gag! No conception of reality, that's your problem. That's why I can't get through to you.

The cheek! The drama! Who am I to you? Not your equal. How could I be? I'd have to believe it to be your equal. Ah, it's not fair.

We are different. That's why we work. Please don't make this personal. Can you imagine how boring - how utterly depressing - it would be if we were the same?

I suppose you're right - I didn't learn - you always are. Does that make me a liar or a fool? I just wish...

Finish your sentences, man! Good God…

... and the Students Dance

The librarian has absolute licence to kill.
"Jump up and shoot me at any time!" exclaimed the shaky lecturer with the nervous walk. Shakespeare did not write about himself, at least during his lifetime.
Perhaps he died from sheer pressure, the weight of literature - present and future - on his soul. An academic, this waverer is; yet he speaks as if one struck dumb.
We listen, though. We do. A tide of whispers may rise and fall in regular turns; but we are respectful, it is the least that we can be.
Remember who we are.

Ever Nothing

I am alive! Now that I know I feel so free. Yes, yes, "the nature of freedom" and all that... but let's not spoil things just yet. Allow me my moment of joy, won't you?

I realise that I am perhaps speaking to no one, but no one is sometimes the best one to speak to, no? You can never respond, thus you can never inform me (honestly or not, thankfully) that I am wrong, or severely misled. Hallelujah.

Would you betray me? Ah, but you cannot betray me; the best friend one can have! Though... you cannot feel for me; my joy is sinking in. Quiet jubilation, my cross was very thin.

I should return to my freedom, or rather my sense of freedom - for nothing is really free - but that is precisely my point, don't you see? You must see. That I feel free is far more relevant to me, and you, than any argument that I am not free. Who is to say? What evidence is there? What evidence can there be? Can evidence be? Perception is king. Here it is, I am it. I do it, and I cannot stop. Perception is.

If I stop perceiving when I die does that make it any less real? What if I die? What is real when reality is irrelevant? Who are you? No one. Just the same as me.

Nothing, Lost and Never New

In the morning light I saw
The prints of your feet
And fear was with me then
I dreamed that you'd
Been carried away
By madness or bad men

As the day grew longer
My fear did too
I couldn't see
What was in front of me
Only what was
Far and long gone

Grasping at straws
In hallways and dark doors
Nothing did slowly return

It said to me
"You, be free
Desperate and young
And, son,
I'll always be waiting"

What is or can Will be?

But it still leaves the
question, as it remains;
what is this paralysis
- this waking death -
that cripples me,
and only does not when
I turn to confront it?
Doth it play with me, am I a
pawn to its orchestrator?
Laughter do I hear behind
the curtain, while flailing
I burrow further into
this terrible illusion.
So it is. If my actions are moot,
my mind can be free, hopefully.
Dreaming this ignorant bliss.
What of the mind as it seems?
What is the mind? Is the mind?
Trapped in ignorant bliss.

The Brighter Star

I'll look for you
to keep me true
to follow through
I'll look for you

you they took
when you they found
but for you I still seek
over hill or under ground
in sundered valley or creek

I'll look for us
to grant us peace
what shame we must
for us

look for me
by the sea
when I'm free
look for me

please

Freedom

But what could I do? Helplessness is far too often overlooked. I revel in it.

For the most part, being helpless is the best situation to find oneself in. It frees the faculties. Acceptance is what really requires tweaking, it can be a hard (thing) to swallow. Just look around. You know we're a minority, and they know it too.

Self-Sermon

Again I find myself
Again I wonder
Lost against a
patchwork of dreams.

Yet admiration proves its resilience
For despair can only last so long.
Perhaps a lifetime is enough.

Feel it, live it
With arms outstretched
And all to lose
that is, nothing.

But it is the best kind of nothing
It knows itself
Like I know you.
Now I touch and I feel
and it does return to me.

To be cold is to be alive
Do not forget it.
Forgive the dead language,
The necessary vessel of this message
Were I able, I would forsake it.

But I will continue to write,
I can make no apologies.
It is what I desire,
and life will find an end for that.

At least deserves to live

Once we recognise that
what we do is meaningless
we can indulge in our passions.

Will you know yourself?
Is he another man?
Whom does time service;
for where do we have to go?

Can you still feel?
Do you look to the future?
Is memory worth more than life?

I used to know things - he used to know things
where are they? What became of me or him?

It and they appear to me as
the threads of an old life;
it should not be mine.

What do I feel?
What is this question?
Utter mortality;
a cheek to the end.
To wrap it in language
is to cushion the fear;
for it comes in waves.

It used to be an abstract presence.

The less I say the more ambiguous I can be.
On a road of self-destruction.

Suicide could be so poetic.