Executive Control Network.

When poetry flirts, I simp, like my life depends on it

Pooling ideas with the surface area of a vast ocean

Curious? Dare to dive deep — Seek one, run out of oxygen

Or get crushed under the rising  pressure of chaos made divine,

I ideate like my mind isn’t mine, like I’ve murdered

And my victim’s demons continue to haunt me.

 

But I kill their ghosts anyway, because I don’t know any better,

A new born  — naked — receptive, to spiritual energies that have long since faded

Sensory input hard-coded to defy Earth’s cultural vacuum

As predetermined as the ecliptic,

Drunk on the predictable, the certain, the specific,

If prosaic had a colour, it would be the one you see

In those that believe they are a gift to every living being.

 

A waste of time — arguing with an ignorant mind —

Head burrowed deep in the mud of sludgy confusion

Incapable of hearing, breathing, let alone understanding.

I let them suffocate, because then …maybe then …

They’ll rid themselves of themselves and we’ll get to keep our hands clean.

 

Goodwill rises like the sun over an icy horizon.

The warm embrace reminds me not to take more than I’m due

From a world long since ruled by inflatable giants

A voice reminds me to be patient — that it’s okay to be tired.

The consensus does not justify my pain 

It only reminds me that what I feel is as real as anyone else.

And so I listen, laying my pen to rest — signed:

Till our next talk, Creator.

 

– O.D. ©2022

 

Art by:  superschool48

 

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