Who’s my audience?
What do they want from me?
I am my attention seeker.
I am the one in need.
Who gains from my knowledge?
What is the point of my suffering?
If I am so different,
I have to find my uniqueness.
Then the God in me will reveal
The truth of me.
For so long, I’ve actively sought
The self, the courage, community.
If I am closer, are my readers also?
If you’re reading this now,
How did you find me?
Something in you convinced me
To spend this very moment
Writing to you.
It is perhaps, at worst
My own masturbatory experience
Of channeling thoughts into words
This language appears so easily now with
Clicks of buttons,
(As opposed to being chiseled in stone).
It’s too easy, but alas
So is the flow of consciousness.
Always flowing, ever growing
Moving through here to there.
Following the sounds of the mind, and
The resonance of words of others,
I believe in something over nothing.
Consciousness is always
Explaining itself to you.
So in the ways I find myself writing
Or typing, letting my thoughts
Move into the written word,
I contemplate ever deeper
On the experience of the reader,
Who is essentially connecting to me,
The writer, the scribe, the note-taker.
I have to surrender
To the other, the you,
The one reading what I’ve written.
I have to allow the vulnerability
Of my truth to pervade through this text
And into the minds and hearts of others.
Because I feel myself connected and centered
In this process,
So I have to imagine the reading process
Produces a similar result.
I have often wondered
Whether or not people like to read,
Whether or not they want to take the time
To be quiet, and watch words flow
Across the pages of their minds.
I find myself observing my own eyes,
Scanning pages, hoping for information,
Hoping for hope, hoping for absorption.
I have to trust
That those who find me,
Have been seeking me.
The separation between us
Is the medium of the art itself.
The disconnection seems so obvious,
But the vulnerability isn’t.
Everything produced becomes
Available for judgment, critique, etc.
It’s all about the filter,
Which is essentially the ego.
People don’t necessarily have the same definitions
For the “invisible” concepts like ego or subconscious.
Nor do people understand when I say authority
It is though, because you can’t see it.
However, it’s understood;
it reaches tangibility from the realm of the invisible.
Our thoughts-forms and beliefs are invisible,
But they can be so strong,
They become tangible.
And while in a literal sense,
I’ve written what feels like a lot,
I am the painter who repaints the same canvas
Because materials are valuable
And time shouldn’t be wasted.
I’ve spent years
Distilling and refining words
Into some perfect
Works of art.
The shadow is always there,
If the light is.
I felt that if I could respect the poems,
They would empower me
And my consciousness
To be worth replicating
But I didn’t feel good about paper,
Using so much paper is too easy these days.
As if it doesn’t come from trees?
It does and there’s no getting around that.
Provides so much for us filthy humans.
So even though
Hundreds of pages
Written about myself
Seemed like a good idea
(And it was)
It’s really the poems
That are worth the energy
Of being shared.
My personal story:
I spent a lot of the time writing,
And a lot of the time editing.
I finished the entire piece
and decided it was useless.
And it’s trashy.
Alas, I’m obviously still connected to the project.
I think about editing it more,
Making it more readable, or enjoyable.
Because yeah sure,
I’m sure some people would be interested
In reading about sex and death kind of shit.
But really, that and this
Are just the mind pissing out memories
Absorbed by you and the elements.