Beyond what I know is real is infinate panic
ideas that seem to vanish the minute my fingers
slide around them
and in the mean time, I'm left with unanswered
questions and unattainable foundations.
It's ever present, the malignant hole,
that only gets bigger as the space
between the understated denial
flounders for meaning and acceptance.
Is she real or just a version of something
I saw on the shelf of another yesterday?
An animated shadow of what could have
been a glorious glimmering star,
now just a waning amatureish dullness
that has been rewarded in pieces
of unhindered existance, groundless bottom.
I've followed the footsteps set forth in front
but in efforts I see that I've only started to
go backwards into the depths of something
that can only be described in short sylables
Like the ooh's and ahh's but never more.
Bound to this truth that in reality only begins
in a lie weaved for posterities sake,
it's become a rather tireless chore to
emancipate from the ideals of a little
girl and her pink and purple world.
See beyond the window of time into
the casket that holds these dreams,
these aspirations and all of the "should haves"
because we were all to scared to hold
it in our feeble hands.
