q is for quiet
for the thoughts that go undiscovered,
buried in the back of my neurons.
b is for blurry
for my eyes which they become,
away from the crowds, if they let to be alone.
r is for reality
for which it comes downing on me lately.
what has become a poison, like kierkegaard thought
i must drink it slowly yet immediately.
f is for the frontal cortex of my brain
that which i'd never ought to think would grow,
that i'd never think one day i'd grow old.
i have lived a thousand years,
scattered around 17 years unevenly
through pain but modesty
yet i look back and find novelty.
i no longer scream, i radiate
the weight of wit is great, that is why buda is sit
and that is why they always call me
i am not all that, i am just k
at the end of the day, galaxy will be chaotic still
from afar, why do all dull rocks look so shiny?
doesn't matter for us, they will always come up
before my craving for a soul to understand kills me.
as i wait, now i must wander around
give it a meaning, most that i can do
the universe witnesses a ringing on the daily
in between the empty
recklessly floating by the atoms
that carry a silence
is it the call of meaning?
or humans yearning?
for whatever it is,
is it not beautiful?
18.05.23
YOU ARE READING
my poems
Poetryhonestly, life only seems like a theatre of one distracting itself from everything to care about.
