Inside of Me.

I just quickly jotted down a poem in about 3 minutes, the lines of which were running through my head throughout the day. I think I managed to get all my thoughts out... I don't know, it's not really anything important or serious, just the combination of feelings I've had about life throughout my life. I am not depressed. I write depression poetically and expressively because it is often the best creative stimulant. Just ask Edgar Allen Poe or Emily Dickinson (great name she has, by the way...). This was also partly done on incentive from poetry class because my professor wants me to be able to get out of rhyming mode... which I can easily do, but I have to prove to her. For those who are stupid, this poem is from the point of view of someone who has ADD (which I've often self-diagnosed myself with having... so in that regard it is pretty personable/personal)... As such it is done in an ADD-ish style, which you will be able to see. I also do have a lot of crazy thoughts in my head all the time, as you can clearly tell from my blog... hence the first line. Enough explanation. Enjoy... (And yes, I know "tessellational" is not a word... Poetic license. Sue me).


Inside of Me

Nobody knows what’s inside me
besides bones, muscles, tears, blood.
Sweat, genius, fame, and love snuck into me
like red wine on an off-white shirt;
drank up by the cotton – and it spreads
quicker than diseases do.
But I just dyed the whole shirt red instead
To deal with my misfortune.
I just died.

Every jumble in my skull jungle
feeds into my entire soul.
My way of life, my way of being…
There’s no happy ending.
What’s inside of me is just a vision:
Figures, symbols, numbers, letters.
The same way transformations
from papyrus hieroglyphics
Yielded to the path of Biblical anomalies –
and yet harmoniously they both make sense.
There’s magic in odd-looking, colored cats
on tessellational paper,
just as much as there is faith in fright.
Just ask Saint Peter.
And what do I see?

Inside of me
there’s this confusion in the randomness,
oxymoronic as it may seem.
Double Ds – that’s one example,
and I’m not talking plus-sized breasts.
I mean the two Ds after the A,
that’s what this is.
It’s not confusion or allusion,
not even a cry for help.
…And there goes my imagery, right down the drain
with all the five-o’clock-shadow microscopic hairs…
Let me swim!
I will find the rainbow in the deeps,
where there’s no sunshine to even make or see it.
And the angler will guide me.
I’ll follow him.
Down. Into the dark.
It’s dark inside of me…