It’s time for me to start writing about whatever I need to. My capital I, it tells me that I may say anything but too limit my words to my truth. In a reflection I find only my image, the rest I impose. Truer I find is my unaltered reaction, unconcerned of social place or dictum to survive. So solidly I find shedding this exterior nightly, that my fears are dowsed, my mind at peace.
Daily I am cajoled into perceived being by my onlookers, my passive confidence a threat. On the verge of death, financial ruin, pointed social shame I feel whole and largely disappointed, my panic button worn out. I can’t run like I used to, can’t keep my trade vocabulary updated with opinions placing me pro or con. I am drawn to ethereal unprofitable notions of which none have time as they hold no stake. Might I starve letting my fear fall? What threat my unconcerned days pose to my fiscal outlook.
Why do I see men on glass-walled ships, screaming their heads off about the drowning of dry land? How the homeless must look like unlicensed buoys, my broken analogy undermined by this fault.
Why is I marred by political bookzones? How about we to us? They, that he slay them, she, not who one thought. Igneous, a term I’d warrant, my cold lava tells me direction, my cut obsidian. Be I so bold to call my sharp tongue? My nonsense won by indiscretion, this cold lesson brought by some silly word like butterfingers, the one who drop it.