It's My Mind... It's My Mind. I'm Drowning. I'm Drowning... Please Help Me. Someone Help Me. Can I Help

𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒐. 𝑰'𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒐, 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌.

𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆. 𝑳𝒆𝒕'𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒔.

𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍 𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒃𝒚𝒔𝒔.

𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚. 𝑵𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔; 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔; 𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔.

𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉'𝒔 𝒊𝒄𝒚, 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒘𝒔 𝒊𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓. 𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒋𝒐𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒚 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍.

The hug became a cure. Not only a hug, but medicine. Not just medical treatment, but healing. More than healing, but needed. They never let go. Even when they are apart.

“When— Where can I find that?” She asked.

“Find what?”

“That.” She extended her arm pointing to the two people embracing.

“It’ll find you.” It answered.

Her arm sank back to her side. Her eyes were clouded with envious tears; maybe not so much envious tears as sadness. 'When will it find me?'

She hadn't asked out loud, but it heard her. “Be patient.” It answered.

First one. Won't be the last.

As strange as it may sound, transferring poems from one place to another is like moving a nearly complete home to an overly cluttered lot. Then again, my poetry is overly cluttered, and clunky, hackneyed and stilted have been called.

Solitude.

I can't rest. I can't reach that level of calmness... I'm like always on edge. Okay? And? More cheese with that wine? That's a bad pun and a line from a 90s movie. Great, I can't rest and I'm having “Guess that movie quotes!” with myself... great. GREAT.

Every day is unique. Nothing will ever be the same again. Even the similarities will never be identical. Both tragedies and joys will never fall on the same plain again. And why are we so adamant about refusing something we've written and are familiar with?

When we had a very lovely day. When something excites us. When the day welcomes us with its silkiness and softness. We grow fixated on the idea that each day will be identical to the previous one. All of the fortune cookie wisdom vanishes.

As a result, each day is unique. Why is it so difficult for us to live each day in this manner?

8-1

New month, new reason: the beginning of a new rhythm for all the seasons. To the tune of nothing and everything. Will it bring more than a small amount.

Little, little, and little to none. The sweetness of the past will diminish but never be swindled since it roots the world in which we live.

More will follow. There is still much to learn and questions to be resolved.

Angel.

What risks does having dreams pose, if any? free to let one's thoughts stray and get lost. But that's all there is. Lost. Maybe lost means you don't want to be found. Imagine that the joy is in being above the clouds, gazing down as the body is motionless. Still adrift. to fly into the air, temporarily erasing all concerns and doubts. Expressionless, immobile, and hyper-focused on everything at once. trapped in the labyrinth of my own consciousness. Is this the cost of freedom, though? This never-ending web of anxiety... the agonizing impression that dreams are unreal. yet actual to me. My objectivity is unique. within this body...

Nothing is meant by this body, these words. a moron with a body, I am a poet who speaks foolishly. Usually unheard, rambling, and losing charm; merely musing and muttering. A never-ending mass of nonsense masquerading as... Collective words. I'm hoping someone somewhere will understand. This mind's soul is imprisoned in a machine-like anger, much like a demon. Typical. Although essentially silly, intellect is marked... And what conflict does my body have? I'll continue to float, staying in my dreams, and perhaps...

Perhaps...

To begin once more, almost reborn? Does that make any sense in the slightest? Or am I crossing the threshold of denial. solutions, I want solutions. Will that put out the festering and flora and fauna fire inside of me? solutions.

Riddle me this...and achieve this to the point where my eyes sink in. What am I gaining, if there's some thing to benefit? Retreating into my own mind creating conditions that haven't and won't appear. Crazy? possibly. Insane? it truly is a piece on the splitting facet. So many matters at bay—my fingertips stained in within the blood of what may be. ...it is simply that, what could be...

Where's my Jacob Marley when I want him? Am I too forging the chain link by link, yard by yard? Where are the three spirits with the intention to help me alternate my ways? I'm calling out— I'm yelling in. I am full of light and rain. Extra solar than rain, more tears than ache, and this...like many different writings is an ode for development. Angelina! you are okay. it's going to all get greater later... And remember later doesn't mean today, tomorrow, or next week— it just means later.