Realisticity

I,

can't,

see beyo–nd,

I hate using words like cannot,

only in its short form,

because it,

sounds,

so,

cheesy,

if only cheese was real,

then I could eat it,

for whenever I chat with a friend,

that I really,

want,

to talk to,

–

–

–

why do I refer,

to them like its?

That was silly,

I shouldn't do that again,

it was silly,

now i'm in class,

like ninth grade,

when I was,

first,

introduced,

to free-writing,

because that IS what I am–

doing,

I am writing,

freely,

in here the now,

presently,

I am so tired,

sitting here,

sitting here is a cliché,

so why do I keep clichéing?

If... only.... cliches were real...

and then....then I could get rid of them...

Hammers on Strings

When I play,

I do not know that the sounds made,

are coming from little padded hammers striking taut strings that make a single vibrating tone,

all I see are keys struck by fingers,

my mind passes over information and looks to see how many different keys,

my fingers can strike at once,

and in which order they should be struck,

my mind, eyes, hands look and listen for the complex combinations,

and I play them,

I cannot see the hammers on the strings,

I listen to how long the vibration continues,

as soon as it is over, time for a new note,

or perhaps there needs to be silence for a time,

but now I can go faster, faster,

and put another pause,

now I can make one, two, three, to three, two, one,

and now one/three, two/four, one/four, one/three/five,

one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two...two....two...one...two...

depending on how many a time is needed,

I cannot see the hammers on the strings,

that needs to sound more blue,

and that must sound more light brown,

more like sand,

more like flowers,

more like starry water,

These are not the names of the sounds, of the keys, of the notes,

they do not have names,

they only have meaning,

but even the meaning cannot be verbalized, in or out,

I see no hammers on strings.

He Says of My Path

Faith – faith my own.

Fear not what can't be conceived,

Will you follow, follow, follow?

Will you chase the world on feet?

Will all that I say become filth in your mind?

Will you sweep it away and forget it was there?

I have so many, many delights,

Take them,

uncover the mystery surrounding the blur