a thing.

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(have not written poetry in a while, not really sure what to label this)

Words are hard when the self is buried under years of dissatisfaction and disconnect. Many voices spring from one mouth, uncertainty pervades even the smallest events. Who am I? Who are you?

Is this real? What is?

A life focused on not causing harm, but due to the nature of existence so many hurts are caused. The safety and calm and solitude, only to be penetrated to reveal wounds hidden under a sheath…

A consciousness held stable by parring things down, denying events and feelings, surface level calmness. Everything is beautiful, beautiful now, but don’t get too close…

Secret histories, are they spoken, lost, or tacitly acknowledged?


How can truth be so lost? How can reality be doubted so much? So much objectivity hidden in distrust, so many tricks of the mind move throughout the shifting of the sun…

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