Poem- “The Bookish”

“The Bookish”

We have little to no experience for most

things in the world.  Therefore, we might

as well be quiet about most things.  You’ve

been looking behind your back, searching for

imaginary answers, while mostly we’ve been

in the darkness.  Remember that there doesn’t

have to be light for us to conceive a reflection

because most things can be imagined on with

unlimited guesses.  My statement may seem

complicated and mysterious, but there needs

to be allowance for our brain functions so the

knowledge is guaranteed to work, as guess

becomes void and truth serves appetite.

  

You’ve been off in your own universe.  At

times this roughness is expressed with

self-defeating causes and I’m wondering if there’s

even one ounce of courage inside that

brain of yours.  The vision is limited by action

from emotional standpoints, and, from this,

you’ve countered the guarantees.  Even when

money stares in the face there’s little dignity in 

there to leave it off at a mark; it’s like that soul

in your body which tears off the confidence,

the very soul you have, until another dispute

comes in the paper.  Papers might as well

be your socket, your flame, the real essence

of time and despair and I’m worried for

you.  Literature isn’t your best strength; you

just happen to keep yourself to it often and

ideas from that soul don’t get checked.  You

question others but not yourself; therefore, you

don’t know others.

Just an emotion can be a piece of ownership.

Sensation brings you back with it although

the feeling hasn’t returned.  It’s like degrees,

it’s like missing theories, turning you in to

destruction because the improvement in your

soul burns over revenge.  Dreaming is easy.

What I’m mentioning is the disappearance

of erasure.  Something calls for your guess

even when the number doesn’t reach its finger

or leave a digit on the window.  Happening

things are related to partial conclusions, subtle

evidence, shaken but not disturbed without

reaction.

I hardly stand the point.  Our solution is broken

up into art that withholds your transgression.

A fever, a maddening effect, runs on a clock

beyond recognition for spooks.  With entry

the planet keeps its tongue along the digestion

of information like fears to plants, cages

to ownership, and that responsibility in you

chirps within means of dissolution.  My fate

turns a second out of your hand during the

progression.  Yet, the goal is lightened into

familiarity, the kind for intuition and not

so much guarantee, even as choice itself

damages any and all awareness.

Your fancy is confused as truth.  So, from here

the point shakes on foundation as language

fills the void into false strength on your end

of the universe, vision tampered or opinion

forgotten, dreamlike and fashionable in pursuit

of happiness towards our claimed peace as

long as relations meet the chances right.  For

this motive your leaning on virtue sits with an

altered process.  The future, the past, rests

with the other.  Obstacles pick up the color and

leave no bright trace where you’re guessing

at reality.  Realization, akin to dreams,

controls your instincts rather than confirmed

status, where even thought changes on itself

depending on faltered mind.