When Written

So many ideas to write about, but I barely find time to write.  I jot them down, those thoughts I thought that seem more when written.  But I never get to contemplate and more so to put the words down.  At least I would this time, this short while.  To write again to welcome the rain past summer greens.

Impending

An inevitability of conflicts
We bring a smite for false peace' sake
But over days the building crumbles
 And left is slow decay.

Chaos impend upon us
If only we are wiser, we would know.
But now we but pray our follies T
o deafness fringe.

Written Thoughts

There are words before written must be thought and boxed.  For all the dark shadows of lingered thoughts, there are clear counterparts freed upon the summer sky.

Each idea is a dichotomy.  And where it shall be known is the dilemma.  Only one lives in the real world, and the other, in the beautiful imaginary world.  Tonight is tails.

Lost

The past days and weeks and months have gone without an audible word. Though life never stood still, my thoughts have remained silent in their anguish.  I feel lost.  What am I writing?  When all I can say that I wish I can live in my dreams instead of living my dreams?  I have no recourse but to stay strong.  Or at least to appear strong, as a mountain is unmoving.  Despite my weak heart, and a mind that seeks but without companion.  Lost.

Things are happening around, and I am atrociously unaware.  The comes and goes of people close to my heart have become peripheral to the labor of my soul.  Large happenings happen before I catch the stale wind of interpretation.  Lost.

Vitamins

I just got my second serving of Vitamin B in less than 24 hours, and I feel already bad, mentally unnerved.  I think I need water to survive.  Maybe.  Will it help?

Lost in an Upscale World

I live with people of this upscale world, whose world revolves around fantasies of the rich and famous, whose excessive luxury they've made their idols --  palaces in suburbia whose land grow scandalous precious, fine dining ambiance like oases in the desert, glittering stones stolen from the earth and the people, and pleasures of the body to escape the small sufferings decidedly they've no right to experience.

Yet I do not belong here.   Suburbia on the hilltop demands unacceptable irony.  The foods of affluence are reprehensible gluttony in the face of poverty.  Gold and diamonds are but shallow shades compared to inner beauty.  And the business of pleasure is not as true as life and health lived strongly and purposefully.

I chase for happiness, but mine is not to be found in these upscale seclusion.  It's like an unlit cell in a dungeon beneath the earth.  My heart yearns for simplistic adventures, to share simple wonders of diversity of class and culture.  But in this monoculture prison I am trapped.  I am beholden to man in his evolution.  But now I'm chained.

Out of Place

Lost in a crowd of colored tables,
What am I doing here?
Out of place in the chattery,
I sat for what passes as eternity.

My supposed companion has gone
Away in her own affairs
Oblivious in her own conversations
To my state of sorry disposition.

Perhaps she has forgotten
Perhaps that is certain
To make me feel her insensitivity
In ways she does not understand.