Breakthrough

Is it my narcissistic interest in the virtue within myself that compels me to create a poem or a limerick. A lyrical musical of ego. And every mood and whim. Maybe, I have to let go further and not care about the world and the whirl in the wind. Or the neon flashing lights that swirl over my head. I see the sparkle of eyes. I feel the weight of your stare. I gaze up on your disguise. How you all want to fit in. I'm a victim of my own madness. If I where somebody else. I wouldn't touch my stuff.

I'd rather write a silly goofy giggly work of fiction. Another world than the one I live.

Another universal question. We all ponder

And I suppose I want to change. I want to create. I want to change what I create and expand and grow my mind. I want to change my narcissistic ways in time.

I'm not removed from the real world.

I have always contemplated boy and or girl. Man and Woman. Never black or white. I don't see the difference between anything at this point till some reminds you. Even corrects you of what you just may be. Determines who you are and sentences you to a life such as this. 

I'd rather write fiction, now. Than the urgent, well intentioned things I do. 

I'm not always living in my head. I need space. I crave it. What can I do. 

I'm not always about first person or the personal memoir. I'm about liberating myself but I reflect and illuminate my work and it's meaning. I'd rather write fiction.

Than live a demeaning life being demeaned. I'd rather figure out the door to carefree wonder. Ive touched on everything. I've lost my spendor in the dark moon. This is such a feeling. There's been a cast of shadow over the truth. This is living. We all must come to terms for we are all messengers with our own tale and story to tell. I want to be care free and not wallow in my heartache. And be broken hearted. I'd rather keep things to myself.

And enjoy the rivers and fields. The trees billowing. The nature of nature. Without emphasis of people. I must let it go.

I must have craved so much attention and this must been a cry for help. People don't pick up on intention. They merely write you of as crazy and delusional. I must let it go.

And get back to myself. Destroy my ego.

And write a work of fiction. I must change.

I constantly do. I must look at myself and evolve into a better person. A better version of myself. Let go of interpersonal views of my surroundings. And just enjoy the view. This is my last poem for now until I have a breakthrough.