I see a field, no.
I see heaven, no.
I see a person, no.
It's like a little game
where I am wondering how
much longer I will have to
pretend I know the nature
of purity, or of heaven,
just so I can appease and not
frighten those around me
who do believe in knowing
such things.
Isn't it funny, how even in a
dainty, pure place, I am still
drawn to people please?
I am more fearful of what
people around me will think
of me rather than what I think
of my own self.
Where I stand, it's like miniature
worlds--celestial bodies--just
breathing and doing their own
things. Each thinking and believing
their own thoughts, completely
unaware of this kind of existence.
And as long as they think, and
believe, and conceptualize--which
plays its own critical component--
but as long as they do so, they will
never know or see me, for I do not exist
on the place of rational thoughts and
math equations, and eulogies cannot
capture what I actually look or feel like.
They are all close, but closeness does
not mean rightness. It is, in its own way,
wrong, but not in the wrongness and
rightness they perceive their world
through.
The only way it seems to personalize
me is through some sort of combination
of all the infinite and eternal possibilities
that exist, and then and only then, will
they begin to understand.
YOU ARE READING
CLOUDS FOR MY EYES
PoetryThis prose-poetry chapbook explores themes of clouded judgments, devotion and deconstruction, and cotton fields where a belief in purpose and a belief in freedom no longer align. New poems released every Thursday at 9PM MST/11PM EST.
