trying to pretend (i know)

the words that i speak aloud, bring into existence, sometimes surprise me. most of the time, i can figure out where they came from, but it’s their utterance that gives me cause to pause. meanings layered on top of them, attributes include the language i choose to speak them in. my sub-conscience doesn’t just contain clues, but neon-outlined signposts.

(this isn’t the right time for me to write)

one particular line by william is what i hear on repeat in my head. a rap lyric is going to determine my future. i shouldn’t be surprised. no-one should be surprised. the best i can do right now, at this very particular and very specific moment, is promise to revisit, relearn and repeat at a future time, predetermined now.

there’s a lot on my mind. i’ve been excusing myself with saying that it’s part of a creative process, but that in itself is inextricably linked to processing in general. emotions getting conned, sieved. yeah, you should be concerned, this concerns you.

(remember one fact, i got your back)

some of these words, that i’m typing right now, belong to another, mainly unwritten, poem. it’s one that i ripped out a few days ago. the truth contained in it makes me leave it alone. most of the time, i can’t look inside. in direct contrast to my witnessing of the external.

i haven’t slept properly in five days. peace isn’t accessible to me right now, although i know where to find it. the result of a choice i’ve made. even substitutes aren’t possible. this is the very worst part of that choice. security means engaging in competition, and i think that’s the only time i ever say never and actually mean it. i’d rather walk, far. i’d rather walk than sleep.

(this is why my teeth fell out)

i can trace this all back to a dream i had earlier. tongue pressing, jolted into a wakefulness i haven’t been able to shake off. see that nightingale? the one over there, on its back underneath that bench? it lived in my mouth, but now it’s dead. i saw it last summer, but last summer it wasn’t in a dream, it was in my parents’ backyard. again. symbolic of the death of poetry.  i don’t want to leave. i’d rather die than walk.

je me plumerai ma tête.

fin.

Leave a Reply