Fondly fuming over the oddly amusing, strangely seething with distressed good meaning.
So while strange seething of seeming distressed good meaning this fondly fuming fumbling fool does proffer a profit towards friendship true.
Still delightfully disturbed and perfectly perturbed this friendship true I offer you, with no feeling of ill or rue, though I’ll admit an adversarial amusement in diligently distressing in minor measures the thorough thinking and intellectual illumination you offer in return for this friendship true.
So fondling fuming and oh oddly amusing this strangely seething fumbling fool does offer a profit in form of friendship true that thankfully is through and through a simple thing to seemingly soothe the strangely seething intellectual you, this fumbling fool you call your friend would walk with you forever, hand in hand, but alas as always it’s an exasperating experience walking with that fondly fuming ever musing fool.
Perhaps if proffered once more we can start again with smiles and laughs lacking the lack luster feeling that fills the intellectual you while standing beside this fumbling fool, I’d apologize, but this fumbling fool that is perfectly perturbed and annoyingly amused is all I know to be and all I’ve ever been but being this being is not in keeping with this proffered profitable friendship, so perhaps its time we walk another way, back to back and facing a way, walking apart and never together leaving this past behind.
No long fond, not really fuming, just here sadly seething at a foolish fumbling me that let the future fade before it even became the past. Lonely, alone, and ever the fool.
You walked away from me.
Running forward looking back the path remains the same
The track though changes all the time the curves straighten into circular lines
It makes no sense it’s a jumble in my head, topsy-turvy inside out
It’s a mess inside my brain
I run the track and I walk back looking forward along the path
The path that never remains the same on the singular consistent track
It makes no sense this jumble in my head things don’t remain from one moment to the next
This topsy-turvy, inside out, this upside-down circle, this route that can’t get straightened out
It’s a jumble inside my head it’s a mess inside my brain I can’t get a handle I can’t stay sane
I wish I knew the rules, I wish knew the game but it never remains the same
This topsy-turvy inside out jumble inside my head, this mess inside my brain
You can also this on my deviant art, along with a lot of older poems and stories. I’m going to be trying to keep the two in sync as I post for now one (as I should have been doing from the start really)
I’m saying I feel strange and in disarray, disjointed and disappointed,
In me and my seeming to the point that my perception of of my imperfections is insisting
upon an insurrection upon the tyrant of this established existence so that my fleeting
moment might fade and falter and fastly degrade, disappear, as if I were but a dream, a
made up seeming, something that was never really there at all.
Detached and deranged and oh so strange they did so think they were not real.
So climbing a tower they thought to peel they did a dance and thought to glance upon the high noon moon and fall upon the sun.
However, all they did was fall upon the asphalt.
With a splatter, with a splash, to quick they proved a lack of thought,
But an overindulgence of courage and some real guts.
I stands alone on a broken shore, and Us is there no more, the We They were is gone today but here tomorrow though They never really were at all. Me is there but I is gone and never to be here again, for the We I was is gone today, to come again tomorrow, at least that is what They say. So yet I stands on the broken shore, where Us never was to be, and Me is all but gone, just a broken memory.
I have muses, two, one is kind and bright but weary of life. The other is not born of me, not inside my mind, but within my soul, it is the drag of life, the scars that don’t show. The pain that burns, that sears my mind and poisons me so, it builds and builds until the dams must burst and wounds re-open unless I purge and let it go, fearful of not indulging that poison muse for fear of making the pain worse. A cruel task master, the whip wielded by life, it cracks and sears upon my soul and upon my mind until I take up the pen, the ink my own life blood and jot my pain, my agony upon paper with words and deed, letting the poison out, sewing the seeping wound once more with words for all to see.
The shadows are in my mind, behind my eyes
The itch is there, in my fingertips
I see a story, barely forming
Waiting to be born
I want to hasten it, make it quicken its turn
But alas, however much I try it comes no faster
It will come in due time, and not a moment before
Yet I can hear my muse laugh in my ear
As I sit and wait, a day, a year
The story I need, the story I want
Its there, right behind my eyes
It makes my fingers itch, with want, with need
To fulfill the story, to make it breathe
But it sits, a seed inside my mind
Waiting til the time is right
For me to let the words in
For me to give it life