I sit here in perpetual repeatedness,
Making up words because I’ve said them all,
My favorite films kickstart my wondering,
The poems both read and written,
Peel the layers from my heart with ink stained fingertips,
See what’s underneath the meat,
Fraudulent faces and make believe joys,
Fiction amongst the walls of past homes,
Past homes amongst the fantasies of ghosts,
But at the core I see a glimmer of hope,
Now that I’m but a bit of meat,
I see that there is nothing covering what has always been underneath,
Underneath the speaking done by books, cinema, and melodies,
Past these worldly urges and layers of ego,
I am merely a grand soul that does not belong,
For I cry when sunsets are too beautiful,
I yip, jump, in unison with waves and winds,
I do not belong and these authors and artists are all trying to tell everyone the same things,