March 8, 2010

• Uncracked Surface

  I’m just standing here
  staring at the uncracked surface;
  no marks of valor,
  just aimless scars;
  a premise, a notion
  that something exists beyond
  the only world I truly see.
   
  It is resting there
  beneath the imagery
  super-intelligent
  architectural
  unreachable heights
  an inaudible frequency
  of energetic light.

  A latecomer I was
  only two decades
  yet beyond the rift
  of knowing
  In foolishness
  and injury
  and unknowing.

  Darkness and distrust.
  Human nature
  in negativity.
  Anti-social,
  rampant, emotional,
  chaotic, yet silently
  bottled within.

  Am I
  a character
  of the burdens
  I endured before?
  Or am I
  just a pawn to
  torment?

  Were they watching?
  Were they judging?
  Were they shedding
  tears for me?
  Or were they
  oblivious to my
  squandering?

  Wisdom came.
  Creativity.
  A higher notion.
  Crown Chakra.
  A greater insight,
  all despite
  sightlessness.

  Yet toil does my mind
  with complexities
  and constructs
  untrained, unsharpened
  And in the physical,
  lasting injuries
  to deal.

  I ponder them.
  I stare at them.
  I hide in the closet,
  and shed tears of them.
  Great desire
  but no discipline
  to my advantage.

  Lonely paths.
  No clear direction.
  No religious premise.
  Only freelance wandering.
  A barren trail,
  with little anyone else,
  to accompany.

  The mind excells.
  What of the spirit
  am I missing out?
  Fascination.
  Yet the mirror
  reflexs a colder
  kind of hope.

  To be the thing of legends.
  A stroke of the ego.
  A tug of heartstrings.
  A will to be.
  Yet strain to become.
  Where I lie,

  Upon an unscratched surface.

  …

  (Its somewhat funny how I wrote this poem a few years ago, and it means more to me now than it did back then. Back then, they were just words, barely conceived. Now, they are quite brilliantly understood from beginning to end. Strange how ones own poetic work of art can transcend time, and even be prophetic in some regard.)

  Nam3less One (c) 2010

  • 2:57 am
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