And what am I? It’s always either nothing or everything all at once. And
what do you call the feeling like kneeling before God himself and begging
for the answers to questions you don’t know? The thought of screaming to
your feet, to the devil underneath dirt you buried your sins and your
secrets in. and who am I to say I know anything and I just barely know
myself.
And they say that it’s like breathing. Pen to paper transactions don’t
involve much but systematical calculations and precise measurements and well
drawn, accurate conclusions. It’s holding my breath. Chest burning, lung
crippling, blood rushing musing, heart aching hallucinations.
And who are weto teach when we don’t know ourselves? What have they learned
to call that thinking, the bitter tasting sweet of empty? What do we infer
those screams, these dreams, our pleas to be? Hopeless.
And what am I?
 
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