I

What do I want?
         Who am I?
                 What is I?
                                                  I wish for a world I would like to live in.
I am limitless.
   I am magnificent.
      I am necessary.
I want to travel without direction.
I want others to learn compassion.
I want to feed others beyond the physical.
           I want others to bloom.
           I want to spread love.
I want to be appreciated.
I want to have an appetite for life/living.
I want to be recognized.
I want to be understood.
I want to write in a beautiful home.
I want to have a group of close, true friends/support.

I need to take care of myself.
   I need to figure out where/how I want to love on a daily basis.
I want to visit with all of my family soon.

I wish not to live by the monetary and social confines of this world.
I wish for the strength to carry on, move forward, light the world when giving up seems like the only logical option.

I like to believe I have some effect on this world
              each act of kindness
              each smile
              each hug
                          slowly chipping away at the steel-colored paint of hatred and indifference.
I want to create
           finger paint, sing, entertain, etc.
                  and not be afraid to share it with the world.
I want to remove fear and self-consciousness from myself and others

Part of me just wants to disappear because I already feel invisible and useless

Where does my self worth originate from?
                 "Achievements?" "Family?" What's the point?
                             Nothing is of any value and I'm no different.
                  everything I believe to be true comes from centuries of untruths, inculcations...
if I do nothing, useless; if I have routine, pointless
    anything I "achieve" means nothing in the end...
So then why do I care about what other people think?/are doing?/aren't doing?

Invisible Scars

Broken pieces lie, the marks exist.
A fracture here, a fissure there,
Healed over, sealed shut, but still waiting—
Waiting to be found, to be seen, to be noticed.
Expecting nothing, they wait knowing their day will come.

How they came to be, only a few remember;
Regardless they wait, remaining forever,
Burned into my porcelain skin.
All for character, signs of battles past.

How many wounds linger in their place
While blind men and women pass by?
How many cracks and crevices are yet to be seen?

Looking straight at them, yet
Looking straight through them.

What invisible scars life leaves.

Beyond

Intrinsic human knowledge . . . inherent to us all . . .

Finds its limitations where the horizon meets the ocean.

One knows the water continues on, it must.

But one can only see what appears to be the end.

The end, the hem, the close, the final line . . .

 

In one’s mind they seemingly accept what their eyes blatantly perceive,

But deeper within, in a part not quite known, they see what cannot be seen.

They see the possible, the fanatical, the supernatural, the ‘what comes next’ . . .

Beyond the experiential, the physical of actuality.

Beyond the day to day, the beginning and end, the in and out.

 

The peripheral sight comes close. Almost touching. Almost knowing.

But the intangible core humans are gifted with, by something greater than themselves,

The omniscient being hidden beneath mere comprehension. 

The omnipotent being trapped within their fragile bones.

The omnipresent being beyond the laws and cycle of nature.

 

What is seen by this intangible core cannot be seen by the naked eye.

What is seen can only be felt. Not by the skin and flesh, not by the heart and soul.

Something greater, something more, something without title or definition.

Something that can neither be truly explained nor understood.

Something that knows more than one ever knows that they know.

 

Knowledge is more than books, more than thoughts, more than words.

Knowledge is more than actions, more than experience, more than skills.

Knowledge is all of these things and more. More than one can ever imagine.

More than one can ever appreciate, but it is there . . .

In each of us, knowledge lies, a universal collective.

 

Beyond social media and political propaganda.

Beyond gender roles and expectations.

Success and familial ties are only the beginning, the tiniest of hairs . . . 

Stacked upon one another, but constantly crumbling from a lack of solidarity.

Slipping away and fighting against one another, by no fault of their own.

 

By no fault of their own. They try and search for answers.

Never ceasing their immense curiosity for where the waters lead.

Pushing the limits of limits themselves, reaching for limitlessness.

. . . something . . . they will never . . . reach . . . but

They try, even in the unconscious they try, they never stop trying.

 

The ego may bruise beyond repair by the limits of this world.

But the intangible core cannot help but carry on. Questioning, searching, always.

Even in secret, even with miniscule steps, even . . . 

The core will always be what it is; there can be no doubt about this.

This . . . this is something that cannot be stopped.

 

No matter how insignificant or nonexistent it may seem,

The core is there. In each one of us. And if one is wise,

One would do well to search out the core, treasure and support it with all that they are.

For all that they are, is the core itself—beyond limitation, beyond knowledge . . .

Beyond all.

Waiting

Here.

Here I stand.

Here I stand waiting.

 

Waiting for you. Waiting for something, anything.

Waiting for time to change, to pass, to come again.

To see you and everything around me become what it was once before.

Grasping for the wavering memories as they slowly, softly disappear.

Holding onto the nothing that I have left.

 

The nothing that has gravitated into something.

A comforting solace of emptiness.

Even my own being can no longer be found in this.

This, which appears as it is but never as it was.

Was I ever really a part of this?

Did I ever really fill the void that now exists?

How can the something cycle back into nothing?

 

Back.

Back again.

Back again for more.

 

More love, more time, more you.

You who never left but never came.

You who stole my dreams, my heart, my soul

And turned them into dust—

Flowing aimlessly, without purpose, without cause.

 

What is purpose without love?

What is purpose without you?

Purpose cannot, does not, exist without reason.

What reason have I to continue on? To continue waiting?

Standing here without purpose is like an ache that won’t stop aching.

Nothing to be done, but fight against the pain or . . . 

Or flow with the ache and see where it leads.

 

Leading you.

Leading you here, next to me. While I stand and wait.

Waiting, flowing, standing they are all the same.

They seem so different from one another, but in fact, no.

In truth, they represent one another so purely that they become one another.

There is no difference, no difference at all.

Save the difference of opinion.

 

The opinion of one is conceivably the identity of the other, but how would they ever know?

They have no consciousness of their own.

They are merely thoughts thought up by a thinker.

The actions hold the same essence, essence of being of thinking,

Of waiting.

 

Waiting where I am.

Standing where I wait.

Where?