That's my corner
a dreary looking space
warped and frowning
like gathering rain drops
in short-lived safety
of crows' feet
of the betraying stance in dark flight
of my languishing perch against a corner
hmm at times i adopt the philosophy of what's done is done. blah blah blah accept what you can't change... if you reject this ideology, have a piece of cake. if, for some cruel sadistic reason (and for argument's sake), you were either 1)allergic; 2)born in an infant melancholy cosmos of primordial simpletons still floundering about the notion of harnessing this wondrous thing called fire; or 3)too consumed with anguish to get a job and pay for a piece of this toothsome treat but refuse, still, to embrace the concept of being cakeless; then keep dreaming cuz hope keeps us alive, and ambition motivates us to do great things.
Distant—grueling echoes striking soft yet deadly; each reverberation sounding the endless additions of empty space. Could seconds travel any further? Could this meaning accumulate any more insignificance when measured against these larger pictures? The indefinable works of art freeze-framing even my most extravagant gestures; my every paramount thought subdued to mere resonance suffocating under its own breath.
Crush—a slow expansion; however, not that of a taut and crumbling lung; rather, the area in which this suffocating encroachment has quickly adapted—this paralyzing still-frame giving the slightest allowance of an eye-flicker and glimpse, only to set in stone this indescribable gaze. My only tangible grasp of movement is now limited by the loudest grind of gears, overturning as meager compensation. I envision a non-existent dust-filled cavernous abyss. Only the fortunate manage to break free, via liberating friction produced by the thousands of Lego pieces moving, turning, scraping, pushing, and tugging as a single breathing structure. I’m held firmly in place, debilitated by this impression forming weight and fear that my intellectual capabilities, my every being is compacted into any single given moment of thought. No. I buckle under the recreation of said notion, attempting to redirect the sole mass of this impression; carving out its shape into a welcoming medium. Yes. Truth is perception.
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