Blood

YesI am escaping from myselfI am escaping deep and widefar away and into the darkest oceansI am looking for youbut I do not want to find you

I am looking for somethingsomething specialThe partWhere I simply look for the unfound amuses meThat is the fun partNoI do not want to find youI do not want to find what I'm looking for

What I am looking for is lostThat is what I should believeI should keep searchingI should keep consuming more of myself into ashesI should believeAnd I should Crystallize

What a Neurosis

Yes writers are insaneI am one Mr. FreudI now owe you the adjective

and sanity shall indeed be leaving the sceneI am somewhere differentsomewhere unseenunexperiencedunknownunvisitedunlostso many uncast shadowstoday it's about all the un's

the lies we hold ourselves withshape and charade

we look for somethingnot want to find it

looking itself is a processfinding is an event

you can't keep findingwhen you find it

the game is over

and this verse is for all the un'sI want to keep living

what a poet is forif not a processa poet evades the event

an event happensbut a poet is an existenceand a poet is many moreso powerful to change the designated titlewho am I it sayslistening her own voiceit was everything and nothing they ever wantedit was absentand it was lostit was unfound and unimaginedit was undetermined and impossiblethe poet considered it impossiblelike the infamous hatter once didhe was tooMAD

the poet looked for the unfound and unimaginarykeeping her own reality sacred and to her own

it was all of and about her dreams onceone day she lost

one day she lost them

one day she lost everything and nothing she ever wantedshe was finally unidentified

everything and nothing she ever wanted

all the years she spenttrying to find the nametrying to inscribe the namesnow realising it was all about being no one

no one can be anyoneanyone can be everyoneand that simple it was

her fight brought her back to nothingand nothing finally meant everything

what she was going to name it nowit was nothingall that was naught had been for somethingsomething destroyed a thing

a thing was lost in the middle of unfound

it was unnecessary and undesired

she wanted to make nothing out of itnothing was everythingeverything was something

and in the end she see-d

all of it has been about one thingthose were not the days

The Names.

The names she looked forthe names she lost herself in

in her away days she'd been happyin her away days she'd been no one

she was everything and all the things no one thought to haveit was all undeterminedand unsudden

she felt when to stopand when to write

a poet should knowthat everything is undetermined as anything

a poet should nowreality is what we prescribe ourselves

realityis the drughuman-madehuman-saveddistributed eternalong

a poet is not required to have the answerbut the thought

and a thought is the candidate of realitybut reality

is all about The Names.

The Deadly

Names.