literature

Should I tell them? Should I hide?

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Literature Text

"I'm here, I exist."
I hate
playing the trust game with fate.
I know you're there.
But existing and appearing are two things I never equate.

I need permission
from my conditions.

As I said earlier about me and my layers,
about the optimistic and the complainers,
I'm not the representative of the eccentric
just what you pay attention to of human nature.

We live like a piano;
Vibrations cry flowing through tired arms
to keep you from falling into the fray
and remind you it's all okay
as the last note fades.

Because, after all, we can't play melody forever.
I know you too well.
You have this complex in which you have to feel clever.
Just like me.
Sometimes I take for granted that I have this characterization;
what I see is what many others want to see
maybe even feel like they can or would or should.
I can't tell if that's good.
I just do what I did in 2011:
take charge
be harsh
put the march back in March.

It's like a one way mirror;
I never quite receive the other end.
"A masculine defeat" is all I need say to describe
the way you never asked for a solution so to no solution you subscribed.

"It's all your your fault.
They shouldn't take responsibility. You never grow."
And because parent's savor this false reality
I have to imagine Jeff burning snow.
The liars do care about those involved
but they don't know what it's like to feel like a problem
who needs to be solved.

Every time nowadays I log into Facebook
I stare for a couple of minutes at the one statement for which I care:
"wolffy i think it is time for you not to be scared."
"the real wolffy is not scared of anything"
"The real wolffy; we all love you."
There's people who'd kill for to say for them that's true.
I guess that's me: the intellectual bi-sexual sentimental
the outpatient mental accidental.
Summer's swift demise
helped amplify your message.
Nothing lasts when time moves this slow
but memories self-destruct so fast.
They tell me to live in the present but I'm intoxicated by my past.

The coffee seeping through my skin
makes me realize that truly my statements are synonyms
for the way I treat myself to freedom with conformist de-conformity.
I admit it to you, Absalom; I can relate to your sense of superiority.

Except you did it with the belligerent bird
and I took the manifestation of what you consider castration
and accomplished what you did with my words.

I hope they'll realize existing and appearing are two things to never equate.
The memories are a bit faded,
but this is exactly what it is to play the trust game with fate.
But I'm Wolffy: If anything at all, I guess you feel like you can relate.
This is an experiment with my expansion on old poetry project.

"I'm here, I exist." This is what I felt for the longest time. I feel like it now, almost. "I'm here." There's something within me that needs to get out but I don't know what. I hate playing the trust game with fate; I hate having to accept my lack of control, but I also hate accepting what I can. Why? Because it's hard work, that's why. I can feel the little remnants of when I was little, even a year ago, slipping away. I'm forgetting Sam Gruber's voice. I'm forgetting what Walden honey suckle tastes like.

I need permission from my conditions. As in, I can't trust my own perception half the time. I have this self-doubt.

All I truly want is to be happy by route of honesty and diligence.
Hey! At least this year is my chance, right?

"You have this complex in which you have to feel clever.
Just like me."

We're always trying to figure out the new idea. Maybe it's just me. It's scary: the thought of having nothing new to give to a discussion.

I am freed by my own persona and imprisoned by my limitations. Just like you, I must find a balance. My problems aren't particularly special: just difficult.
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