Presumptions

PROSE

Sitting on a rooftop over looking tomorrow
feet dangling over unforeseen sorrow
but from here I find contentment, you see -
and not in things that might or won't be
towering above you on my ivory obelisk
the fear of fear of vertigo is an acceptable risk
and when the mountains turn to me and look with scorn
I'll know its these rooftops where our dreams are born

the pursuit of perfection is the art we practice
painting pictures of mortality on the back of clouds
across plains of repetition, our new thoughts have tracked us
and philosophies have followed our footsteps so loud

us thinkers and writers and those yearning to learn
we sit on rooftops held up by theories and dreams
but with just one strong gust our fortunes can turn
and our lofty seat collapse, and that's all that means.

Expressionless

Ah, silly frustration. Be damned you, self fustigation. What a curse to be only able to express yourself in such round about terms for fear that saying what you think may read as ridiculous as it sounds in your head. Away with you, eternal cliches and thoughts well fleshed by everyone else.

Trifecta

These are the wakeless hours. Those between impending darkness and the even greater threat of renewed light.

Is it for better or worse to always yearn for the fruits of a tree out of reach? Better to keep striving for improvement, for what is inherently more desirable. Better, I dare say, to never be content for fear of sedation and the dread of what lies behind a wall whose bricks are regrets and mortar is the days we wasted not climbing towards that higher branch for that perfect specimen of existence. A door without a key, the contents of which drive one to their wit's end with the simple temptation of a world so different from the one we have grown to loathe, and the access to which could have been found within an experience we did not pursue or an opportunity that was left unexploited. Turn your eyes upward daily, and gaze upon the clouds and stars and dreams which are strangled quicker than they ascend towards those lofty heavens. Havens of ancient wishes and wrinkled wants, the places above us are a respite for all that we do not yet know, and thus must be explored.

Cut the bull shit and the language used so poorly to describe such plain ideas. Simply put, we spend too much of our time (that is, all of our time) in an ultimately futile attempt to figure out what we have done was what we wanted to do next. And when, after too long searching, do manage to figure out exactly what it is we want to achieve, we are so definitely wrong. Simple, and yet disheartening, it is a gift to find consolation in fleeting moments strung together to make the time for which life is remembered and appreciated. Optimism is a great thing to feign.

ATMA - Listen to good music