Honestly, what would become of me?
Don’t like reality,
It’s way too clear to me,
But really, life is dandy,
We are what we don’t see,
Miss everything day-dreaming…
Traveling I only stop at exits,
Wondering if I'll stay,
Young and restless,
Living this way I stress less,
I want to pull away when the dream dies,
The pain sets it and I don't cry,
I only feel gravity and I wonder why,…- Nelly Furtado (All Good Things-LOOSE)
The responses to my first stab at mature (def: post class nine) poetry (see previous post) coaxed me to delve deeper into the dark, unexplored abysses of my persona.
If you are not one of the 10 people worldwide who managed to read and comprehend the previous post effortlessly, here’s a summary, or rather a direction of thought to think in while reading it... The poem deals with my tryst with wrestling thoughts that roil back and forth in my mind. Oftentimes I am aided by the music I play on my guitar. In these candid moments, music is what my feelings sound like. My singing voice is what my thoughts sound like. And the whole experience is what meditative silence must sound like…
NOW go on and read it again. I hope the poem has now entered the realms of non-Jupiterian understanding…
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