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

Submitted: October 29, 2018

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Submitted: October 29, 2018



The head- it feels like corridors,

Echoing thoughts from ceiling to floor,

Among the vibrations of silence and more

Thoughts that bring present, past, and future doors.

And now I think of my body there-

Moving as the echoing thoughts from where

The walls surround me and lost I stare

At forming doors by rippling




Languaged words to voice I must

Or swallow hard down to my heart....

No end, no start.

Birth at infinity, and stop I not.


My head, a string of corridors...

Twisting, turning, forming more...

Thoughts and thoughts and thoughts and doors

To open to more corridors.

Endless now we fall to time-

Illusions grounding is in lies

But what is what and what is this?

But what is this if what is but...

Or is the lie but a truth to shut?

Open now.. and wandering lost.

Thinking too much.


And thinking.

Never enough.

These hallways give away to me.

These hallways blank to make me free.


Pixelating my being to doors

is this mind the heart and soul?

My body back outside these walls

Watches the thoughts, watches them all,

As doors- they close to a darkening greet.

I am chained, in all places- defeat.

Running through, my echoing feet..

Another corridor I meet.

Reality is a dream I wander-

A door mirrored to another.

Passed I stepped. Craving answers

Escape- cannot.

There are no answers,

Empty powers 

That I yearn for,

And breathing more.

For death is but another door.

I am eternally the corridors.




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