Another Poem ~

6/4/17

There are pieces of me

Shattered all over this world

I have wandered and left bits of myself

Impressed on the places and people

Who have impressed back onto me

I feel a little split as if I am not whole

But when I look a little closer, I see that I have regenerated and duplicated myself.

I am not less. I am more.

6/10/17

There is no “there”

I hate to break it to you kid, but tomorrow doesn't exist

The only place is here.

That sounds so simple, and yet the concept is so foreign.

We all run around, seeking for some kind of fulfillment.

Nothing is fulfilling because fulfilment is temporary. The only thing fulfilling is the deafening silence that fills my ears as I breathe in

Peaceeeeee, ahhhhhhhhh

Dark & Deep the Act of Exist Writing.

I have so much energy to do things because I am running for my existential thoughts. What is happiness? Everything is temporary, even this mood of dark and deep. Pay the bills. Work. Play. Eat. Shit. Day, day, day. It looks a little different here and there. But the anxiety is maddening. I am happy. I AM HAPPY. Life is good. It is great. I manifest my dreams, blah blah blah. Who the fuck even cares? I just want some quiet for a minute in the outdoors. When I get it, I go crazy being chained to a computer within walls with air conditioning artificially drying my skin. I wish the world was simpler. Even if it was, would that be enough? Would my energy push me forward to explore? I am not the still type. Why can’t I be the still type? I meditate. I am learning to sit still. But it is never enough. Nothing is never enough to fill this hunger to learn and explore and love and to be. None of it really matters. It is all just an experience: the good, the bad. Even when things improve, it still doesn’t matter. My life is happy and my life is good. But what does that matter? What is life? Death is inevitable, but we do much more living than we do dying, so why do we fear it so much? If there is nothing, then finally it will be quiet. Maybe that is dark, a bit too dark for comfort. But it is fact and we will all be dead one day. So I sit here typing, listening to the clack of my own fingers on a keyboard that will wither away. The human experience is a hunger for more. Eat, sleep, work, play, eat, shit, procreate. Round and round a hamster wheel, destroying and poisoning a planet and other life forms until this planet is consumed by the sun.

The End.

6/14

I should sit back and breathe
That nothing will ever satisfy
The hunger of being human
The desire for more
The craving for the other
Sometimes I find my existence
In just forgetting about the future
Forgetting about the past
Forgetting about my thought, my name, my story
And remember my being
In my breath