In the Stream

Reflecting on my years
periods more distinct based on emotions
than chronological time.

I have so much to look back on
from trauma to love,
my god, have I lived already.

Simultaneously grateful and discouraged
Everything means something,
so nothing means anything really

But still I've learned to make meaning,
that meaning is the realest dimension of life,
a uniquely human plane.

As I age, I grow more weary.
Trudging through the world,
yet still more confident in the strength of my will.

Sometimes I feel like a hurricane,
sometimes like the eye of the storm...
the flow between order and chaos,
fluctuating fluid floating frighteningly freely.

C'est la vie,
sometimes it be like that,
just keep on keepin' on.

There is a stream of wisdom that only comes with time,
in part it is reflexive,
recognizing its limited perspective.

Every day I can feel the connections
budding and blooming in my mind,
neurons branching and reaching.

Building more bridges 
and burning the ruins,
all aflame with inspiration.

Stronger still,
I grow following the sun.
As a flower turns to gulp the rays,
I stretch toward my dream of sensational harmony.

Upside down and downside up,
my eyes reflected back at me
don't look quite the same in this light.

Smoky Eyes

Smoke Disappears

The sound of cars occasionally passing by
crunching the leaves on the ground,
curving the air with their form,
they crush their horns like it matters.

I can't see them from my bed,
they move through the streets like ghosts 
as far as I know they only exist as simple sound,
wisps of a physical concept

I fill my room with cigarette smoke,
the air of depressed stagnance expanding
It flows in my eyes and it's a unique kind of pain
a veil of gaseous particles choking my sight.

It curls and twists with the air
the fan in the corner gives it a whisk
spinning through my intermittent breaths
climbing the space to the ceiling

up, up, up...
If only I were a wisp of smoke
whisked by the air around
swept to new heights by a breath
energized by the flow

I build a home in the smoky billows
cushioned by my wish to slip away
sometimes depression is so comforting.

You are worth it though. 
I tell myself what I need to hear.
I teach myself to love reflexively. 
Reflecting on my inherent value within.

People become distorted mirrors of the self
displaying a hazy kind of truth
colored by the filter of their perspective
we take as an objective assessment. 

Curling away from the smoke
choked by the toxic fumes
I blink and it's gone

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