Who We Are

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


A description of us.

Submitted: July 15, 2018

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Submitted: July 15, 2018

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I’m freed from the disadvantages of sanity,

From the rusted chains of standard identity,

From the infamous, often defamed definition of

“Normalcy”.

 

My life is my own,

To have and To Hold,

An amorphous shape of which will never fit to one single mode.

 

To lie motionless in body,

In consciousness,

In mindset,

Is to revoke the idea of existence entirely.

 

To be unaware, to be blind, deaf, and arrogant

Towards your personal humanity

Without fluidity

Is to be ignorant.

To be ignorant is to be trapped,

To be trapped is to be helpless,

To be helpless is to give up that which powers us most fiercely:

The spirit of Life.

 

We’re connected,

To you

To me,

To them,

To everything,

And everyone.

The stars above us shine upon us, and never would they run

Because they are simply all,

And all is us.

Matter is energy and energy is us.

We are it and it is they and they are us.

 

But who are we?

A speck of dust,

A grain of sand,

A blemish on the infinite cheek of the universe.

 

And?

 

Bleak, perhaps,

Small, Perhaps,

But grand in the senses,

But boisterous in the mind,

But infinite in the thought

 

Caught,

We are, in the balance between life and death,

Physical and metaphysical,

How whimsical—

Don’t you think?

 

And we return there, to the thought,

The experience which makes us aware

Of ourselves,

Of our wealth

(Spiritually)

And of our own lucidity

---Or lack Thereof—

 

We cannot leave thought to the thoughtless,

Or require the thoughtful to babysit.

A gift it is to all,

A weapon,

An enemy,

A Power.

 

An illusion, perhaps thought is,

To make us believe in a freedom

That will never exist.

 

Or a truth thought is,

That confirms nothing but existence

And universal reverence.

 

As we harness its power, we weaponized its gifts.

We see death,

Destruction,

Inequality,

Labels,

Shame,

And endless pain,

And we ask, “when will it stop; when will we rebound?”

And we think, “What is this maniacal slop of a planet we’ve found?”

 

Blind to the fact that we are what we create and create what we are.

 

We are it and it is they and they are us.

 

We are only as thoughtless as we want to be,

And I can only sit, observe, and see,

That this brain of which I have condemned

Is what has freed me from the disadvantages of sanity.

 

We are but a thought,

In the grand scheme of things,

After all.


© Copyright 2019 A.D. Ware. All rights reserved.

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