To the left, is a booth full of tears amidst the laughter.
Some organics, more often than not faux faces and senseless.
If I had words of comfort, if only.
If I had a reason for the behaviour that stands out.
If I had a picture of the smile
or could place my finger on the mouth and mind
behind those exaggerated screams.
What have I come into?
A world of ascetics, where plastic is the means by which we communicate.
It's a world in which I cannot compete.
Incomple ...
a shape with many faces.
We claim this is a sphere.
I grow weary of inspiration when my subsequent action is not creatively genius.
Innovation was all there is to set me apART once.
Now my thoughts I never knew are never new.
Can we tell when there are tears behind eyes?
Strange mannerisms.
No wonder you cry.
But.
It's not fair, you don't know, no you don't show.
Is it true that I am held captive by more than my own corrupt tendencies?
Hostage to more than media?
Mediums of influential proportions?
Fast Foods, addictions of all sorts?
Chained to more than my lack of ability?
Lastly my lackluster motivation?
Cold foods.
Boring me to death.
Earth tones, burning me from the chin, up.
You can call this what you wish, but this is simply me.
My flow of thought.
My spewing of environmentally influenced metaphors
and the runaway train of attentionless disorderly thought.
My brains pointless pairing of the minuscule moments,
momentarily mixing and melting into metaphors in my mind.
Are we all so different?
Or are well all together alone?
At what point to I reach limits?*
Where I begin to repeat words.
I've used them all before.
Someday I'll follow something through.
I'll learn to love to learn, meet my love and learn something new.
Oh. Now I see.
All this time, it's me that's you.
*quickly, I suppose .
