There’s a jail amongst the jails
inside my darkest noesis,
writing doctrines, sending mails,
Why do I love you?
The thought of freedom is so sweet,
the sunshine is so teasing;
I don’t even have the time to read –
your jail is just pleasing.
There’s a super massive blackhole
right at the center of our Milky Way,
so, I am not sentimental if I say
I love you for ever, and we can call it a day.
Hot and Cold are changing between us
like the poles of two atoms;
even turning back to the electric charges
ends us up in equilibrium.
This case is heavy;
everything’s in action –
let’s call for it a proper study
and make it elementary, dear Watson.
Here’s Iodine in red
that says nothing else
than someone’s injured health
is in need of a proper repair of cells.
We’ve got Lutetium, Vanadium
as a huge amount of consistent property
that may indicate an ongoing chemo-therapy
killing the disease of the mind rather than the body.
Then, we’ve got charged Uranium
that is up to fission to get a way lighter,
being ready to be a self and shared energizer
getting its treatment to vibe as a two-three highfiver.
See? Isn’t the case easy?
It’s a matter of chain-reaction.
Outcome? I’m pretty sure we’ll see.
Though, it’s still elementary, dear Watson.
Since my childhood, I tried to break the algorithm
with all of my power and knowledge;
observing and overcoming – analysing and forthcoming,
but all the science was proven woven to a fate…
The algorithm just kept me running, ruining my own keepsake
full of moments that would have been better
if just the circumstances had been just less bitter:
“Closely had it.” “Closely worth it.” “Almost had her.”
I tried to avoid blaming, judging
as on myself as on the funny mishaps coming,
but with the views and experience enlarging
even to ignore became vain.
For now, it’s academically proven – no illusion
that there’s an algorith running, ruining –
5 centimeters per seconds like tree leaves falling,
bringing me back to a Murphian rockbottom.
I tried to avoid, tried to evolve, tried to just pass,
but the cat was always dead in the box;
knowing or purposefully unkowing the fact,
there’s an absurd algorithm looking for my head.
I can feel how it loosens,
my grab to the sense of reality –
I’m afraid to ask, to know
whether it is too late…
whether she’ll be there at time…
but she is always here
in my mind
There are so many courses I could have taken,
so many paths, fighting down my traumas,
so many hearts to make my own re-awaken,
but there would be always a me…
… who has to suffer.
So, I am not mistaken that it is me…
The Martyr of My Happy Alteregos.
Once an angel offered mankind a choice
to have power to destroy or
the power to create life.
At that time, there split two different lives
in which we are living happy, and
the other in which we are now.
No one knows how alternate they are,
but it’s an awful day for living and
a beautiful day to die.
Cornered by this ill-fate ordered,
but there must exist an alternate ending,
not scorched-land bordered;
the thoughts are so vain, but somehow mending…
Why is it so hard to talk to me?
I’m so easy to define and see
like a drawn circle on a 2D paper;
no need to think of infinite dots,
no need to calculate any of the odds
why we are a 2D paper’s spots.
I’m so easy to talk to as a 2D circle;
I know all about what’s a circle,
I have ideas who draws circles,
what’s the paper all around,
but in a glance, all the flat talk circles down.
I am not a 2D circle –
I am a ball after all;
I need to select 3D objects
to talk about the mere sphere
we see as truly- or non-coprehendable.
I talk about all dimensions –
nonetheless its name or number,
or how they are non-comprehendable;
I am an E8 mass of particles,
being everywhere, but nowhere as a whole.
I am so hard to talk to
because I am here and there after all;
there’s my shadow on a 2D paper,
there I am bouncing like a ball,
and such a changing shade is barely talkable.