Rose, Prose, Poetry

Tangle

It was linear at first. Shaky, but linear.

The hand that drew the line trembled, but it was stable,

Drawing a crisp line of dark ink.

But eventually, I didn't know what straight was.

I looked ahead, but "forward" swam in my vision

And everything I once knew was warbled, my hand becoming wobbly.

Soon, lines fell atop lines, and shadow lapsed over shadow,

Forming spaces of stark white and odd scribbles and infinite black.

I barely stayed afloat, teetering on the tightrope above blankness.

But my focus and faltering steps led to nowhere

And eventually, my heart and mind wore out.

I fainted and fell through.

That's where I'm writing from.

Somewhere in between. Somewhere that's everywhere and nowhere.

A space in my life that seems to lead to no location.

The finality I seek is circulatory, and I'm stuck.

I get better, and then I don't. I can breathe, and then I can't.

I move on, then move back. I stand up, then stumble again.

I try to make clarity from the chaos. To define the mess within me.

But it's all a knot. A tangle. My life has nothing to characterize it

Other than frustration. And a bit of pointlessness.

But well, if it's pointless, maybe I should stop adding points.

Maybe checkpoints are like a horrible attempt at pruning

If pruning led to the cutting off of the heads of flowers.

I still hate aimless wandering because society calls me weak

For losing my sight and taking the long way around.

But sitting here has gotten me nowhere,

And shortcuts have cut me apart,

So I think I'll just take the long way.

It's still a way to live and a path to life,

And it's better than nothing.