Still I get pulled from left to right by all of my senses. Reality drips through a raggedy cloth drenched in beliefs and understanding by others.
When I shut up, the world becomes clear to me. How I want and need. How I dream and head. How music works on feelings deep inside of me as if it is some biological form of mathematics defining the reality that no longer drips through; I have become a sponge.
And then I talk. With my voice, my chest, my memories of words and the meaning of what I am trying to say. The reality of everything seeps away and I become me. Full of emotions, such as anger about myself being stuck within this body with all the useless desire.
Still I get swiped from left to right. Biological beauty seems best defined as a sweet children’s rhyme where the beast is innocent and man a brute, forever stuck between the need for more and the wish to be good.
Aside from the general rhyming I feel quite mad, dreaming of utopia’s where no one ever needs to feel sad. Try moving ahead whilst I always return to the beast laying dormant wanting to be loved, tonight. Sad is a feeling and the beast within is just fine, alright.
Yet the morning always brings contemporary light and the sky a billion shades, of which just a few grey. As well as the friends I never congratulate, there is no problem, fear or hate, I am just not here right now. And once I am it’s always too late.
Don’t wait up, I will be busy for a while. Trying to feed the world, stop the big brutal wars and the sneaky economical fight. First inside myself, then my raggedy cloth. I wonder about the world yet sometimes I understand our wrong and right.
“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tonight.”
