In blind pursuit of why —
Falling
In patterns,
In scales
Incomprehensible
To the naked I.

You and I walked this road before.
From once upon to ever after,
We learned what follows heartbreak —
Yet, stubbornly,
Resolutely,
Ultimately,
Always keep
Coming back for more.

Obsolete temptations, stirring,
Whispers from a distant once —
Phantom fragrances,
Desires, sensations,
Churning dust of ages past.

Nothing says
I love you, still,
Like simply being there —
Even subtly,
Subconsciously,
In denial,
Unaware.
You're still here,
I see you, for I am too.
After so long,
We both still care.

Going through the motions
Like a bell missing its clapper
That keeps ringing anyway —
You never truly
Had anything to say.

Free, so free.
Nothing can touch you,
Not even yourselves —
Into that sunset,
Never look back,
Oh, you glorious
One trick ponies.

In the end, none of it is meant
But through ignorance and pain.
Hazardous, the path of knowledge —
Quests for meaning stray endlessly
From obsession to insanity,
And back again.

Media to feed the fiction,
Locks to keep the world outside —
An antidote with barely
Truth enough to chill their bottle lies,
Selling by the bloody dozen.

Reality, a storm of
Clashing single-cell perceptions,
Seeking dominance in alienation
Of all but the self —
Seeking heaven, raising hell.

Crossfire interplay,
Victims of the war
We wage inside —
Taking both sides.

Siphoning a little extra,
Who would notice,
Who could care?
Once, twice,
Often, structurally —
Stream,
Trickle,
Drop.

Tweaked perception,
Biased observation —
Before the light
Hits our eyes,
It's hindsight.

Left unspoken,
Left unheard,
I put to bed
Hurt unaddressed —
Librarian to the departed,
Speaker for the sad.

Wallowing in frustration,
Blanket pain, bottomless grief —
Any dark sensation beats
The too familiar numbness
Of not feeling.

Such futile
Self-indulgence —
If this is freedom,
I can't believe
We paid for this.

Not angry, not sad,
Not even disappointed —
Just very… something.

"I felt that," said the poet,
A self-proclaimed
Low-hanging-word-smith,
Ending the poem —
A short piece of
Too bland, yet purple prose —
And I did not feel a thing.

From the crypt
Not the heart —
Buried love,
Words spit in pain,
Again.
Irreconcilably apart.

Our voice,
Their commodity —
Freedom
Of purchase
Of speech.

Things are bad?
What did you expect?
We most value attention,
Then idolize assholes
Who won't chase anything but.
Plot twist, right?
Yeah, not quite.