youngblood

an experiment
in prosepoetry

 
 
volume Ivolume Ivolume IIvolume IIvolume IIIvolume III
 
 
 
 
 

savageous

 
 
 
 

where are you?

 
 

youre buried again and i cant find that breath of air needed so need to voice what were actually going through the lack of light blinding us to present time continuous perfect it might be but we cant understand a king among unsightly visions no guide dog running us through what could may be nice it could yes true.

 
 

theres this fog across the sea cut it with words accuse ourselves of not enough why cant we find the proper ones to breach float through it all unsufficiency is that even a word see what i mean well no oh.

 
 

are we not asking enough questions or the proper ones or actually maybe we are just not taking the time to properly answer why must everything prim prime proper proper i hate that word more.

 
 

this search for words is strange is it more about discovering them since we never used them or have we simply lost those that work if the latter did we do it on purpose i wonder and if the former how many words are actually left for us what if oh god we run out of them?

 
 

i guess there may be others in many other languages though we should try them out sometime weve always been good at single vocabularies but fuck the neighbours which aint a nice thing to say they might be good people and they might have the words like i dont know saudade schadenfreude wabi-sabi something of the sort.

 
 

they are out there i know it
one day we might find them
_________ blank space here
dear future me please fill in
words like _________ and ______
they help us
right?

 
 

at the moment we just stumbling
mumbling stupid us as if we’re mediocre
but we are not you know why?
there is nobody out there to compare ourselves to
and that sucks
like
lots.

 
 

time might be the problem here almost certain for all the shit we do dont not enough spent on answers i know we said we wont force but outcomes actions they are knot—what!—we need. dribble the stars day in night in nothing out quick release no first mate degree just a poor sailor who cant see the sea a fog almost self-made like everything else of this that our reality current.

 
 

we flow plow through pages rapid fire dialogue but how much will it help there is this element of consciousness stream trickling ink on treeskin oh shit metaphors save me now anything to keep the pen moving as long as we’re moving we good motion is living breathing tentacle monster analytical self-referential masturbation.

 
 

the point is—my point is—the struggle once achieved shouldnt be glorified because if its true struggle then working towards a resolution salvation will move the needle in truth and complacency would just anchor us to a fixed point a regression to stone age art that does us no good in short long either any term birthing more hate and rage than we might take we are not ready to break just yet maybe one day but please me be in far future i dont want to kill potential when everywhere its in abundance a horn of plenty spiraling down to an infinite one dimension.

 
 

so so so how much are we winning out of all this—thing—we are doing here no champions of self-cognition we are merely ignition to a process that may pay off but how much should we push to make it regular—er?—another question lacking answer its annoying really we got used to not having enough so now that its a baseline we somehow content with it in every aspect of our living.

 
 

we shouldnt just expect more:
we should demand more.

 
 

shit though you know how much of a slippery slope that and downhill things can go so lets make this clear in this instance im talking about words and time and that is all okay? okay?

 
 

for once lets not condemn trying—please.

 
 

more words good
more time nice
—okay.

 
 

work on all the other fibers in your being you obviously thats not just auxiliary to the main path we set upon actually kind of required and to be truthful we couldnt do all days like these mondays there has to be a rest of the week filled with life because there is still life and it must be lived.

 
 

wonder wander what it will be in the end that we will be most proud of will it be our stories gathered lived or will it be our standing statement the sum of all these voyages on vast black seas skipper of our rowing boat paddling through chasing land or—oh how i hope—sight of it all.

made for
friends

2015—2020

keep writing   
there is wisdom
in sight 

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