Flowing Ebb of Time

Time is running at a standstill.

Ebbing, pooling and stealing.

It is like I can feel the pulsating life
echoing around me
in this room
as if it were a cavern
or a chamber.

There is this feeling of disconcertion,
maybe something you know as being
something like disconcerting,
anxiety and the anxious one.

Reverberating screams echo in my head
just inside of here.
Within reach and out of sight,
a contradiction, correct?
The inside being out
and the outsides consisting of you.
It is not like this enigma wrote itself
or thought itself into existence.
It was born at your request,
small words I doubt you can recall.

The beauty is you can gaze at this structure,
this attempt at meaning and find nothing.
Not even a realization that you bore this
all to fruition.
Words, sighs and angry screams.
Every last expression trapped
in an attempt at art.
Frustration builds at the moment
and realization of the surrounding cages.

Every bond and every relationship
a potential lie and the cage
of one paranoid and deluded in self.
It isn't just a simple note or riff,
it is more.
More than you can process or know right now.
If you looked close and saw it,
your hair would turn white
and you would die locked in an expression
betraying your absolute horror
at this creation,
this being made as me.

Is it hate?
The betrayal of self?
Or something simple,
like ignorance?
Dates, meaningless numbers
pile into the stream of life.
Days flow into one another
much like the water
spilled from heaven
onto your perfect white dress
and your trifled filled wedding day.

You aren't alone in this,
the one living in ignorance.
To point the finger blindly is one thing
but to realize how annoyingly true
I am is another point all together.
It isn't a choice I made either
because if I choose
it makes me responsible.
Not like you,
free to run into your life.
Free to run away,
free from burden,
free from responsibility
freed like your broken sexuality.
Like I said a free time
to point my fingers
and pretend I'm something else,
something special
and someone not choking to death
on my own stale hypocrisy.

Something that angers me beyond thought,
beyond reason
and beyond truth and convention
is the fact I have myself to blame.
I have this nihilistic tendency
to embrace truth and corrupt it,
wear as a badge and devour it,
just to be left with nothing.

Nothing that is something.
A mad leap from thought to thought
state of being to the next,
a redundant trip down this rabbit hole
a racing screaming train leaving the tracks
and breaking into reality.

It runs like this.
This steady heart beat of thought.
Empty at first.
But quickly races across the stage.
Figures and symbols cloud the page
as soon as the fingers press down
to acknowledge their existence.
It is a half life
that is a full lie.

Nothing could be further from any truth
that you lay claim to.

We are both tired and we weep.
Weep for joy, for fear and freedom.
We weep because we are afraid to live
and take this very next breath
for fear of our heart beat
and the fact the next pulse
could be the very last.

Time.
Constructed and flowing.
I do not know why I let this happen.
Let myself be pulled
instead of standing firm and pulling back.

It is almost sort of funny.
In a sickeningly real sort of way.

Something real but not.

Sort of poetic in a strange way.

Time consuming and flowing,
trapping you and me.
Uniting in ways
we fear to hate.
But true,
in ever sense of way.