Kealana

People treasure
Every second,
Every moment—
In perfect ways.
Pleasure entrapped in hymns,
Distant souls watchful through a thin glass frame;
perfect.
But I can't stand that every moment,
I can't stand the hands of the clock—
Each second engraving a smile
That I know taunts me with those skinny black fingers,
That I know grows closer,
And closer
And closer
And closer...
Until it repeats itself,
The smile taunting me each hour—
Twenty-four?
Forty-eight?
There is no limit.
No comfort in endless numbers
In mindless numbers
In mindless numbers
In mindless nu-
Do you hear it?
All sounding the same,
I cannot tell which occurred when
Or who occurred where.
I simply cannot deal with it.
You may think,
It is order.
Or,
You may think,
There is no order.
Time and order;
Did the same skinny black fingers play god throughout the evolution of man,
independent of the workings of nature?
Or does it matter how the colors arrange themselves so innocently across the inverted landscape,
independent of nauseous sediment?
Remember the time you first experienced something so harsh,
like a god himself came forth to drive his fist so deep through your being...
But
Do you remember the first time you came home from school, tears cascading down your cheeks so fast,
and your mother asked, "What's wrong?"
I wish I knew.
I wish I knew why—
Something so loved,
Something so cherished—
Brings me so, so...
So much confusion—
Am I the only one feeling this? Thinking this?
So much frustration—
In the best way possible,
How can I use this?
How can I make it worthwhile,
when everything seems to slip through my seemingly unwavering hope—
I can't.
I just cannot.
What else when
There's only one way to end ti—