in hiding

confidently I fell asleep with wet hair sticking to the pillow,
deep-sea dreams that contain nothing but opaque open nightmares
about sea monsters flogging down the eastern train,
and evil mermaidens tangling long lines of golden brown hair
in the propellers of a passing motorboat, a passing dream in the dream,
incept upon and through the tangled up thoughts and memories of today
and yesterday, too, I guess,
and sleeping slowly I toss around a bed of feather and straw,
the pigs didn't know that building a wall of stark emotion could keep
a wolf from crusade, from encountering them, from intruding on their lives.

what is coming in? letting something in is like a protruberance,
a what? an incision upon the worst type, the worst kind
the worst kind.



--

underneath the pillow i find sharp golden things and i
refuse, I refuse to clasp it in my hands,
or brush it through my hair,
or hold it inside of my pocket because underneath the pillow
I can't see it, or in my hands I guess,
or anywhere, the golden light that shines through everywhere
the unknown longing everywhere is veiled by something darker,
worse by half, and everybody sees that veil over gold sometimes,
most times, occaisionally anyway, and nobody accepts the gold for what it is
and was,
in their own hands,
but pass it off to others trying to hot-potato the gold,
nobody wants it.



--

I'm hidden under my own veil, my own lost island of atlantis,
beyond the sea, beyond the round earth on which beings pass silently,
beyond the golden light of the sun, the moon, the galazies that are just out of reach,
beyond and over the rainbows, the universe and the further beyond,
I am hidden, hiding under my own veil, my own discreet habituation that I have created
so that I am alone in a paradised gateway to inside,
and if anyone entered truly I would be gone, my existence as I know it would not be,
I would not be.



--


I decided to write a bit of poetry for a bit, I probably will post a couple more times today. I've found that with this blog I have a tendency to write more than once a day, which may be due to oncoming inspiration and muse, or some detachment anxiety from the blog of yore. Whatever it is I intend to let it muster and grow underneath this "veil" of which my writing is kept, and I guess I should write a bit more about my mindset lately.

How about happiness? Does anyone really feel this anymore? Is anyone ethical? During my studies of humanism that I've been looking into a lot of the theorists talk about ethical and moral values, and I question my own morality and ethical beliefs. Am I ethical? Do I care to be? On my large plate that is infront of me do I have the time? Is humanism right for me if there is no time?

Why do I have to identify with a labelled belief system, anyway?

I forceibly address the fact that I would love to just reject the fact that I must choose something anyway, and begin my own journey of thought and theory in order to justify my own head to myself, but I remain compelled to explore humanism further. Honestly, I don't care. I don't care about internal anything, I just care about happiness and peace. Something about the theory of peace is compelling in itself, the fact that maybe there could be equality and love, just actual trrue love.

Wow, true love, sounds like total bullshit. Maybe instead of conducting a study on humanism I should try looking into true love, and the fact that at twenty years old I have the capacity to love a lot of people, and what love is. why is love subjective and beautiful? Can love be a form of hatred? Why do lines have to be so strict and clear, why can't something be a little uncanny in nature? Is that true love?

I want to write this one post forever, I want to reveal the love that I feel for this blog already, the love that I feel for the words that I set down in every sentence, every spoken word, every gesture and hug, every smile. Smiles are theraputic, I want to research happiness therapy, maybe that is a true form.