Keep Writing

Darkness.

World swirling in turmoil.

No truth. No truth. No Truth.

Bubonic fictions wildfire through our minds. No room for thought. Life. Love. Only stories laden in dopamine pools of stagnated existence.

Once there was a way to get back homeward…

Demons catch all the throwaway Truth, that which should be seen, felt, heard, tasted, smelled, yet they wallow in the cluttered trash heaps of throwaway meanings.

Where resides our peace? Religions? Wealth? Power? Hiding from the world? Stealthily tiptoeing through life to avoid the evil controllers of our existences?

There lies no safety. None.

Our dopamine druggists sweep our minds to the hidden crannies of paralyzed lives, thriving our time as though this vital commodity best serves dormancy and decay.

What purpose do we serve in this cowarded old world? No Brave New World here. As we lay our heads to sleep, our puppet masters gild our souls to reap for their purposes.

We lay less than pawns on the illusions we even exist on a playing field.

AI. Tik Tok. Video clips. Video games. Sports. Controversies. Politics. Religions. Bankers. Lawyers. Indian Cheifs.

Run. Run from death they cry out in command-silken voices. Se death splayed across your screens. Watch horrible injustices for 95% of a video and spur that yearning for righteous closures.

Control. Control. Control. Control.

1984 appears childsplay compared to this existence.

Search not for answers here.

This writing reveals no endgame paradigms.

No escape.

In an insane society, the sane man will appear insane

Keep writing.

My lovely Grecian urn heart

Keep writing.

My midnight friend.

12:01

Keep writing.

Once there was a way,,,

Throughout all the complexities that slay our sensibilities, and rob our thoughts dreams, and aspirations, we swirl swallowed in it all.

I found a clover of three and one petal
Lying in the sea of words expelled in gratitude and love
From a heart that revealed a purity of yearning I’d never known

Keep writing

She wrote
Never stop
And when I stop?

Keep writing

Weathered hearts
Age and pain
Sadness, despair, loneliness, longing, fear, hollowness, love

Keep writing

I find myself in that midnight garden, trees of anguish, forlorn hope, and utter darkness
Yet the voice I long to hear but may only extrapolate from text whispers a soothing sigh of wistful womanhood
Lending my breath, my hands, my fingers, my heart, to all converge on this page and

Keep writing

The Grecian Urn stands as a cold, cold prison in many impetuous thoughts
A place of honor and love and eternity hollow of the one moment, that glorious nerve-exploding nanosecond of the eloquent first creak of Pandora’s box from which no known recovery reveals its presence,
And yet, I would open it anyway

Keep writing

Don’t you know, you fool, you never can win,
Face your mentality
Step up to reality

Keep writing

So I melt into these words
The ones who flow from my deepest core
And sprinkle them with a love even I cannot understand

Keep writing

But who understands love anyway, right?
I do
I do

Keep writing

My midnight grays and silken whites follow their paths, well-worn, throughout my heart, and I endeavor to find that key, that hope, that moment, if even simply a sentence audible to starving ears and heart
For the simple hope of attaining the opportunity to experience the briefest of moments to attempt to control Pandora’s release
And the Urn politely destroys the hope and yet I will continue to seek the hand of she who

Keeps me writing

That was what I needed. I’ve just begun learning to play the piano. I will never be a virtuoso, but I enjoy my personal time with music. I am much better now than this version, but it’s all I have available at this moment…