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The only way that I can think is through the mind of another; and even then, I cannot even incorporate a single ounce of myself into the thought that it spills as bile out of my mouth and from my pen without a trace of originality.
As youth, before the rigor of structure and reality, we think so pleasantly, so complexly, so blissfully and unashamedly. And I can think, yes, what I think of this is true. Is it not profound, especially in the tone of my own tongue?
But how terribly banal all of this is. I ramble pointlessly in my juvenile perspective.
This is the matter, put most obviously and candidly: Young body, wise mind; aged body, stupid mind.
If I knew how
I could say more about this, but that is all there is to it.
Nothing more.
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(July 7th, 2024.)
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection.
PoetryEvery poem that I have ever written in my designated poetry journal since the day I was eleven years old. Read at your own risk. 😎
