V O L C A N I C

****** Volcanic. Part Deux. ******

Sometimes despite their efforts to provide insight through the highlighting of her faults, she wants to scream “Fuck You!” in return, cause she knows her capabilities, maybe her shortcomings even better but what pisses her off is that she’s taller than both and yet she can’t find anyone who does not want something from her to look her in the eye and tell her they love her. ย To reduce the heart attack factor she’s working to accept that people just aren’t made to love that way.

In her reality she stands tall and looks in the eyes of no one, so to bridge this unfortunate view she has created for herself a vision of love that is tangible to her senses, warms her skin and confirms for her what she needs so that when it arrives, as it has, she will recognize it. Like everything else unfortunate in her life, what exists now all started with a vision. No matter what the crowd says, she knows dreams come true because she lives with the results of them everyday. ย Clearly she has learned that the dreams one envisions doesn’t make them immune from the pain life inflicts, still, she is confident that the dreams one manifests into reality make the inevitable pain and disappointment all the more bearable.

She sometimes operates as a dove and other times a crow but beneath her actions breathes the faith of an eagle that prepares and moves as if what does not exist does. This line of thinking could if desired, guarantee anyone bed space for life supported by government subsidy but a personย born in space will never find peace in the confines of a false comforter.

Most days she tastes the dream as if her reality is extended REM, and while some will say she lives in perpetual psychosis, she will respond with yet another, “Fuck You”,ย cause on the non-REM days perpetual psychosis is the current day disease of humanity she covers her mouth and stands within, hoping not to intensify the infection by speaking out loud her pain, and since she didn’t sign up for the neighborhood marching band, she drifts to rooms of solitary confinement, listens to ambient music, lights incense and replays in her mind the innings from life where she stood outfield, way too damn far outfield to get out.

Some days, she eventually falls asleep in hopes to remember what passionate love feels like when she wakes up, cause losing the memories etched upon her soul would mean the eagle had lost its sight and a dreamer that loses their vision also loses their will to live.

These transient sentiments and effusive beggar cemented words are cardboard signs holding no meaning; She’s in the underpass shaking her ass and if anyone should so happen to roll down their window with a kind word then one of them might feel better about their existence, cause for every person that sprays their graffiti thoughts outwards, there exists another to paint it over in opposites as if they never existed.

In the absence of expression there exists a clean and pure blank page to cover and tie our silent fears in weakened strings of evanescent hope, faith and love.

As we tune our sight to the ropes of worlds reality, we’ll align with their requirements to paint within the dotted lines of their ramblings because this is the only way we can be found dignified of acceptance within the galleries of their surrealistic exhibits fed by socially influential exhibitions of finite artlessness.

Or, Fuck That too.

Let eagles hunt for their own food in their wistfully colored, scrambled, screaming and sophistical self-created unsocial territories.