Being

Here I am: a phenomenal person— 

but all eyes are just walls— 

so many chords cut off the box, the melody twanged,  

then dropped, then wobbled, dead.  

And all the past is running wild  

behind such great fortresses, and like an idiot  

I stand totally recognizable— 

that makes me so strange. 

All the urgency, honesty, shining forth from my body... 

but you blink. Is it too bright?  

Too ideal or perfect?  

Is it me piercing, climbing, tumbling down truths  

with all the earnest eagerness that I succumb to?  

These levels do not exist, oh child in the sandstorm. 

These levels are dotted lines in the air— 

something that you did not create.