There is a part of me remains inclined

to let the world imagine me undefined.

That’s originality

or our quest toward individuality.

What’s my reality,

I’ll tell you only if you listen to me,

but there’s the struggle,

the obstacle between knowing and telling,

is the inherent nature of a sadness

overcomes our own desire to rid the madness.

 

While embarrassment can often expose

the true nature of the demons we hold,

our lives always remind ourselves that human nature

in all of its evidential plan to feature

mystique and an inherent chance to change,

still mocks the true reality of our game.

If we could wake to splendor every breaking sun

what would cause the need to wonder of our pain

if it became a surreal memory

rather than the constant reminder a soft cry might bring.

 

If we could know when to rely upon a need

might then our lives become less overshadowed

by a society suggests we always understand

rather than accepting confusion as a demand.

We are subjects of appraisal,

in the moment,

when while alone in our mind we do travel,

there are always a set of eyes nearby,

to ponder, to wonder, to initiate our own sense of

quiet surrender.

 

Oh to be that muse of everyone in their daily ongoings,

to know the key to survival in a storm would be our knowings.