The Next Season

Sleep deprived, mind alive questioning everything including the question. Why am I conflicted over who I am, I am nobody, I am somebody. Is either one true or are they both wrong. I hate not knowing.

Being apart of something is true and as the water drains the current pulls the world around me away. A pinball amongst trees, I am lost, bouncing from place to place, it feels everyone is an illusion. I can't even feel myself sometimes.

Everything is hollow. Pople words, the baguettes left untouched, the home without warmth. Empty. Is it even worth clearing the cobwebs, or should I let other people tell me what to become. It seems everyone knows who I am but me. Perhaps I’m naive to even question what I should do. The emptiness doesn't leave is it somehow my fault.  Like an exhibit I stand for people to look at and talk about but never to know.

Is it just a poetry assignment. Is it just a poetry assignment or is it something more. The ink on the paper dry tells my tale. My tale or my thoughts. I may wake up and none of it is real. Maybe none of it is real. Maybe the difference is I don't care. If it is somehow my fault I care not.

It is time to move on. I can't let what others think about me, not any more. I have the capability to make someone's day better. I can't afford to be such a dark place, not anymore. I can acknowledge the bad things, but I can not stay there. I can no longer stay here than the river can run uphill. Or a mountain be at sea level. I must travel from experience to experience and enjoy the moment even if it is bitter. An art piece without contrast is just mute. I don't know what it looks like, I don't know if this even counts as poetry, but I see poetry as an undefined expression of one's self. Sometimes I look back at the dark pieces, and am glad I am through that phase is over. But like the paper misses the tree it once was I miss how easily the dark stuff came to me. Everything that I have been doing so far has been almost forged, like it's something I have to do, I hardly ever write just to write anymore. This phase too will pass. My writers side will grow as surely as the soon to be green grass.