what feels real

 

I have wings 

that can fly in a dirty sky.

I expect my eyes to see 

what I don't want to know about.

the line of conclusions within me 

ever grows.

I have crops of topics 

I keep in the past.

my sin of existence 

keeps harassing me. 

every sensing is abrupt input 

to where I want to be.

I can't say 

the calmness of a lake surface suits me.

maybe the root conversations 

of a forest of trees

would be a neighborhood I could live in.

stoic is too posing 

for my sense of disclosure.

when I think out loud in my mind

it's noisy more than sensible or settling.

my breath speaks of me best 

when nobody is in hearing distance.

I have asked my eyes, 

what embarrasses you(?).

the conjugation of touch by my mind 

is contentious and a bother.

the phrase 'sweet deeps' is meaningful to me

but not in a language base 

I am familiar with 

to others

if color had moods to share on their own 

I'd be there.

I react to the concepts 

of approach and depart 

with solemn interior restraint.

most of language to me 

is the false-front of meaningful.

if I knew any of my habits well, 

they could spell out my diary of existence.

I say best out loud 

what whispers itself to me 

to start.

taking myself around 

is like the presence of self 

as my luggage.

hold me

so that I get to think

that being human feels real . . .