Poetry Collection.

"Paradoxical."

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Is it a child's tongue
to dwell on the lowly notion
that my life is nothing but a contradiction?
There is a burning, consuming loudness in my solitude
that drowns out the pleasured silence;
and even still,
there is a stark emptiness in my animation—
one that meanders, blind and boring,
and hovers over blank pages.
And would it be too blunt
to dwell on the lowly notion
that I am wise, and that I am foolish?
I am all that is good,
and everything that poisons.
There is a frantic heart beneath my ribs—
it cowers inside my dead heart,
the one that remains still and silent
upon the face of the sunrise,
and likewise, in the torment of the rainstorm.
And beneath even that lies a soft heart,
a serene heart,
and the knowledge of everything that I know
that I do not know
everything.
No,
I know nothing
and the everything that nothing embodies,
like the starkness of this barren skull,
like the foresight of my anxiety,
like the honesty of my kindness.
No,
I must be nothing.
I must be that specter that you see from your knee.
I cannot even imagine it.

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(June 19th, 2024.)