try a trick.
play with life
in the process of becoming yourself.
each poem of mine start with me,
for I am self concieved
prisoner of my own self, plain, simple,
in tact with the notes that dance with a rhythm in my head
expressing a pain that laughs in my stead
and plays with all that appears when my eyes rest:
words, shapes, structures
individuals, individuality, groups, processing of thoughts, figures, life as alive
and life as death–
dead I was
before I landed in this place that bears me and the scent of my former self.
the me of now gets lost at the first thing that pops in my head
for I know nothing but this!
and maybe some fragments of something else:
everything in everything:
leaves at leaves
veins at veins
trees at trees…
then I get bored of repetition,
patterns, eyes, skin, flesh,
maybe even from death itself.
I repeat everything in my head as I repeat myself.
in all the days that come
in all the lies they say
in all the shapes they force me to take…
and I am formless, shapeless myself.
plain as every other picture, poem,
plain as every other dot in the tabloid of what we call existence,
plain as every other color in the silk that lays spread on the place where my feet stand.
lines form and invite me to dance.
I am tired.
for in refusal I evolved,
in acceptance I was raised.