tick tock tick tock
a couple of days, months, years have passed, truly, things don't change at our own disposal. the all-time fave sweatshirt wasn't anymore the same fit garb i could flaunt before; the upper torso deemed taut and firm was now plump and airy; the feelings bursting with tenacity were now bantering with the gleaming darkness. it's like everything was on a flux, until i'm beaten by the very fact i'm still disgruntled by the need of having that sprint or spring to my feet at the expense of me battling again(st) the world.
such a thing just led people wondering: how come you have become such a fool? right then i thought, answering the question wouldn't just bring them any inkling or even the subtlest hint of reply, though i don't even know why i instead just purred, does the wind warrant to explain itself that it's existing or that it is there? from their scratchy faces—i know—it thought-provoked them so hard, it made them retort craps a stereotype, irrational man was very good at.
all the same, i'm certain of what i said.
i swear, by that time, they don't have the right to blame me.
after all, it's them being completely thoughtless—
that they would never really conjure up what a fool looks/ feels like, until they find out being so should've been felt, not verbalized; experienced and not just shared.
i don't know but
is it too brash for them to unfeel?
regardless of all the things they throw at me—sticks and stones—all i'm after now was nothing else but to find what i am for and, better yet, figure out if what i'm feeling calls for some extraordinary means.
though,
i'm stoked for the latter.
YOU ARE READING
Fools
PoetryA collection of poetry found its way juxtaposed with short works of prose, conveying talks about what comprises the life of a fool, what it takes to be such, and whatnots in between. Fools is a book of poems and prose alike, dedicated for those who...
