Is our reality a controlled hallucination? Do we actually have a physical existence or are we merely four dimensional thoughts? Is our consciousness actually just a continuance of our unconscious mind? What is behind the perception of our perspective? Is our reality created by our necessities? Is it all simply adaptive reality? Are we all irreducible representations of the symmetries of space time?

Questions that I ponder when the stress piles up in my life. I don’t know the exact answers to these questions, a lot are based on theoretical ideas and some like the problems in my life are transitory. They help me not to dwell on the negative and to work towards the positive. No matter how complicated it gets.

I know I'm never going to get a text back from you and that's okay.

I just wanted to text you to see how you're doing.

Hear your laugh another time, listen to one of your famous stories

and I don't give the best hugs because you do

and I don't give the best advice because you do

and right now you'd tell me to eat a snack and let it work itself out

I just wonder how, such a beautiful person can be gone

I don't really know how to write a song, I was just hoping

you'd be there tonight to talk about life with me

And I know you didn't mean to leave

but I was just ready to go when we got the news

had to choose but we were miles from you

in bed with all those various machines

But I know you didn't mean to leave

you just got places to be, people to see

Laughing with everyone you meet

They couldn't keep you down, busy with jet plane energy

you've got places to be, people to see

Flight attendant of the century

I'll always see you in my dreams

I know the three of you are laughing like old pals again

And I'll love you from right here, don't forget me

don't forget me, don't forget me

cause I know that you have places to be, people to see

hey J it's time to leave

places to be, people to see

there's other people here visiting

I just wish you'd answer me

when I joke and say your hair looks great

but I got too scared to say it outloud

so I said I love you and I left

knowing that I'm never going to get a text back from you, and that's okay.

I mainly write poetry as an outlet for my pent up emotion

The thoughts in my head constantly causing commotion

I don't read poetry on my downtime for pleasure,

But from a young age Dr Seuss taught me about rhyme and about measure

Usually in couplet form because that's typically how my brain works

But my creativity can do much more than that, it's one of the many perks

Now and then I'll come up with something beautiful for an object around me

But they are few and my emotions demand attention because they are confounding

Reflections of happiness, pain, anger, and humanity

I bleed on the pages to restore my ever slipping sanity

Sharing my heartache so that maybe someone won't feel so alone

Demonstrating that honesty with yourself is the only way to feel at home

Just understand that most of what I write are my inner thoughts and personal feelings

You'll get to know me pretty well if you pay attention and are interested in real things.

As If Today

Is the End of Days

Acknowledging I Am

In Motion and Matter

Arisen Master

Inspired By THEE

Authorial Intent

Ideating Me

@bykaileyann

--

#poetry #freeverse #prose

my hair

long

shining with vitality

absorbing the light, and the water

making love with the breeze

feeling the ambience

an extension of my energy

my head

my arms

my hands

my legs

my portal

it is my holy clothing

I am a writer.

Am I a writer?

When do I go from a writer

Who waits

To a waiter

Who writes as a hobby?

I'm not a waiter.

Why'd I say waiter?

What metaphor am I trying to achieve?

That's it --trying

Always reaching

Never grasping

Always just shy

Or this close.

No awards, no accolades

No recognition

No published work

And I'm thirty.

Not an ingenue

Not a new voice

Not a brilliant prodigy.

Thirty

And my book is still half written

And my poems are still trite

And naive

And irrelevant

Ever increasingly irrelevant

Because as I grow older

I fall ever away

From the people, to which

I long to relate

I am a writer.

Am I a writer?

Sometimes I wonder

Because I feel like a writer

When one line of brilliance

Hits my insomniac mind

And I cannot sleep

Until it's written

On any scrap of paper

To be found

But I wake up in the morning

And that sentence, so profound

Is gibberish, it makes no sense

Am I a writer?

I write a new word

But I hate it

The old word was better

But no longer fits

I feel like that word

Never right, never fitting

Always searching

I think I lost my generation

Or maybe it doesn't exist

Because we're all consumed

With chasing fleeting

Fragments of the past

That we hold nothing

That's just ours

I am no voice

To that generation

Because that generation

Is voiceless by choice

Everyone has their own drum

And they beat to their content

They don't need a guide

So why do I still

Feel this need to fill some void

That if I write for long enough

Or say enough

Perhaps I'll find some meaning

They'll find some meaning.

I hold that flickering hope

A candle flame

I make believe it's a torch.

And then I'll swear that I'm done

I'll blow out the flame.

I'll give up forever.

And then I'll wake

And I'll pick up a pen.

We see the damage that humans do to nature every day. We see it in the gray smoke being pumped into the air from the factories, in the iridescent oil slick on top of the blue water, in the stray dog eating fast food scraps off of the concrete, in the sound of a tree trunk splintering and breaking, in the constant pacing of the animal who has been confined to a cage, in construction set to replace green grass with black asphalt, in the prevalence of another announcement that an endangered species is now extinct, in the piles of garbage that collect in land fills.

At the same time, we can see how humans do damage to one another. We manipulate, steal, abuse, neglect, violate, enslave and kill each other. We talk down to one another. We hurt people who then go on to hurt other people. We continue the cycle and pass trauma from generation to generation, never ending.

What humans have failed to realize is that nature is more resilient than humanity. Nature's cycle is one of destruction and rebuilding. A fire will burn down the forrest in order for the forrest to grow new luscious life. Humanity's fate has been sealed by the collectives' actions. Humans will be the cause of the end of everything we know. And nature will rebuild. The green weeds will slip through the cracks of the concrete. Vines will wrap around the deteriorating corporate buildings. Trees will grow through the asphalt that was meant to keep them out. Nature has inhabited this planet long before humans arrived and will be here long after we leave.

The hunter in the tangled thicket looked out through bloodshot eyes at the forest clearing before he ran toward his prey. He felt his anger boiling up from his cauldron of festering rage. Why did his father dislike him so much that his only childhood memories were of beatings and scathing remarks? He still had the scars that his father had inflicted. Even his mother hadn’t wanted him. Sometimes, she even sent him to bed without supper for no reason at all. Now that he was no longer a child, he could finally get back at all those who had caused him grief. His world was a dark, foreboding place as he tried to keep his escalating insanity in check.

A young woman was kneeling on the yellowed grass in the open space, picking wild strawberries and humming a little melody. Why should she be happy when he was so miserable? He took careful aim with his rifle, imagining she was a rabbit, and shot her in the back. She moaned as she flailed her limbs, trying to survive as she gasped her last breath.

The huntsman smiled to himself as he pondered his name, Chase. It was such an appropriate name for one who preyed on others. Running over to his young victim, he prodded her with his rifle but she didn’t budge. He wiped the saliva from his toothless mouth, slung her over his back, and headed back into the forest to the little dingy cabin where he lived.

“Ma! Pa!” he yelled, still trying to attain their approval after all this time. “Here’s another one for the barbie! Stoke up the grill!”