Drowning

Drowning in a stampede

of emotionally inflated details.

They are not

just being themselves

but also representing

historically and histrionically

the burden of all of like kind.

This is the handling

of all preceding details

by a set of invisible rules

that take their toll

as seductions

of constant curiosity.

Yet when these emotions

actually and fully occur,

they are pulling attention

in all directions

with lurid

unconscious attachment,

unannounced but fiendish,

as lingering delights

with dangerous

but quasi-memorable pasts.

I am unable to gasp

for at least one breath

the light of pure acceptance

but duly notice,

“a cleansed soul

is not an innocence”,

is now more my style of closure.

There is more the purging

of disguise and diminishment,

as a place in a line of thoughts

that reappears

with original distain and distaste.

Sure these are old thoughts

never the less

for this version of them

and the deeds they use to do,

I am thinking of them

quite differently for now.

My sensitivity,

without a logical leash,

is over-feeding me,

over grazing and over done.

Idealism is forcing me

to stand against the internal rain,

to shape my words that functioned

like a form

of sarcastic complimentarianism

but as a self-punishment to hear

although well earned

and decorated

with hidden embarrassment

for then.

There were slim hopes of avoidance

and with frequent visitations

to the same lost place within

it was as if privacy

were the addiction itself.

For me, it became as if

a dog’s tail, (mine), could be perceived

as its tongue

if my chase circle

were tight enough.

And I would historically say

to myself,

is there safety for me and from me

if this could only be seem as a blur?

Is this admissible

as a cartoon character

out of context,

unceremoniously

running out of time?

Yes, that would have been

my death

as we would speak of it

for now.

But I am alive

yet vacant to that task

and go on

with our conversation like this

as if it says something

other than what you overhear.

What I am now saying

for myself after all

I have learned from this,

is that

“context is a lost soul

in overcompensation

drowning in details,

just being itself to death . . .”