Frustrated,
I throw down words.
Digital ink struck from the underside of keys
unlocking the doors of perception between
syncopated concentration,
the off beats, oft beat
to the point of confusion;
and free thought that comes with the cost of collusion.
Every iteration of self
polluting the illusion
of a coherent individual,
with a
disjointed
narrative.
Yet still the words spill,
I grab at the few I can see to fulfil
the need that I have to express my free will.
Cast out in an ocean;
adrift;
lost and floating;
hopeless yet hopeful
I choose the direction to paddle.
I’m choosing these words, I choose what I say, and the way that I say what I’ve chosen to say, and I choose the day that I say what I’ve chosen to say in the way that I’ve chosen to say.
Yet often I stray.
The day chooses me, the way that I say what I say isn’t me, the words that I want are not there to be seen, so I stammer or argue ineloquently, and in such a moment I’m no longer free.
The tide of the ocean is carrying me.
The illusion of freedom is cast out to see.
So, I see that you see a different me, to the me that I see when I’m quiet and free.
So often I choose not to speak,
and clutch at the fragments of who I might be.
-NFW-
