I wear task
as if it was the wardrobe of momentum.
my fixed focus is my excuse
if purpose is to save me.
skin is my unsung hero,
I secretly appreciate.
consciousness, at this level,
is a slow observance,
too involved in self dialogue
and spacial appraisal.
I know my species is an unobstructed nuisance
but I keep to myself about that with other species.
mostly, they seem compassionate
in their own way.
mine, don’t get it
and couldn’t really care less.
I just go about acting
as if the planet was mine.
we over-demonstrate almost everything.
it isn’t as if eons went into our methods for doing.
sometimes it feels like understanding
is a bleacher seat.
my smarts are knowing what not to do
actually I couldn’t say any of this
to your face in person.
writing it like this
is a confessional suicide of intimacy.
I privately feel for
more than closeness can provide.
I get how aloneness is a given
and we talk over it
but I don’t see why we have it
as a way of life.
I suppose this is a philosophical can of worms
to say it
but I have no explanation
for the way this feels to me.
otherwise I live in a cardhouse
of opinions surrounding me.
it’s like cliché-tag in a pool
that makes no waves to be safe.
this is all very introverted of myself
to share this way.
quiet minds align,
language doesn’t help the cause . . .