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I want so much that which I know is attainable
in some way or another,
but the bother is,
I seem to make them so unreachable.
My self contention is the trouble:
the idealistic and realistic selves in perpetual battle for power.
And ideally, I want this whole town
to be a playground
but without the constraints of that
Infact, I’d get rid of time and all;
I’d have the recorded chimes stop
in the clocktower of the guildhall.
This time-void will become a landfill
and us, the rubbish trucks,
dumping everything from
time to take your pill
to – I’ve too much time to kill
to – how long until
I feel it’s finished and will
all that work even be worth it…
But a landfill can only be
a temporary solution for something
with a much bigger capacity.
I just want to write further than the first stanza
without feeling I’ve lost the stamina
or conviction of what I say –
even when speaking from a persona
of a five-years-ago angsty self.
To not feel I need help
to overcome this creative anxiety
making my palms sweaty
fast taps my feet
to the earthquake
has me shuddering,
shivering at the
– and I stand my ground –
through the page,
at meaningless discourse.
After it all, I want to find the
middle ground of the ideal and the real.
I want to tie all the little poems to big balloons
and let them fly away
to orbit the earth as many little moons
and hope that someday
they descend before those who know
the words were meant for them
and that my heart was simply the medium.