Strange, our bodies are vessels for experience, withering away at the slightest motion
Limited and conceptual
engulfing all manner of energy
How . . . . How . . .
Insatiable
Like we crave any spec of feeling,
Absorbing the essence and fuel,
using their waste as a stepping stone
I can only imagine what a baby must feel
within it’s small shell fueled on limitless potential
How limitless their plane of existence must be,
like an empty page, intimating yet non-existent.
I seem to have talked of existing for miles upon every train track,
mix-tape or road, yet they all end with the merit of a life,
high off of success and hopes and dreams . . .
All never seen when one passes beyond, yet that template moves on,
Seeding into young, unpure, and furious potential
I wish the stars gazed at my form the same way a void does;
not sensing a spec of humanity upon you, yet it seeps inside
sadistic, somber, soft, sweet space
penetrating yet hallow,
Alive yet static,
Life is in a sense a chance?
I guess at whatever snide, ugly career they’ll paint you as,
Fallen faces stuck behind masks
Nothingness pointed as glorified cash
What is money anyhow?
It’s like working for your best friends’ uncle, it pays off for a price?
But that means nothing . . . . . . . . . . .. . .
At least the value
Maybe God spoke to me
through the seering pain
Healing yet insane
OK now my thoughts have calmed,
Pick up the pieces of the manics song
Not they belong to anyone
Just ramblings of courage
spoke through blood
Fake but hopeful
Unsteady and floating
Dancing not done
Life’s only begun
Epilogue:
Thanks For Reading
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The Nameless Collective 