Introspective retrospective
inescapable dreamscape
makes your scars twitch with
discombobulated self loathing.
Memories stained with
fear mongering
innermost thoughts
and knifepoimt teardrops.
Insomniac, somnambulist,
can’t tell the difference,
doesn’t want to fall
because sometimes
all the time
the rabbit-hole leads
to reality.
© Emilie C. Black, 2020
I think that I think I exist.
If thinking equals being,
Then I think that I exist.
But it’s not a conscious
Decision to will myself
Into this existence
And this is evident by
The persistent indecision
That I find myself facing
On a daily basis.
Because I’ve lived
My life thinking
“I think, therefore I am”
But I find I am in
A constant battle of
Positive versus negative
And logic dictates
I wouldn’t wish it
Upon myself so
Who did?
How would I know
If this wasn’t just
Some kind of crazy,
Inconsistent coma dream
From one too many
Car crashes, causing
Flashes of different lives
To flash across my eyes
In a systematic series of
Fortunate and unfortunate events.
Maybe this isn’t even me,
Maybe I’m someone else’s
Fantasy or hallucination,
A nighttime thought creation
Or process of dissociation,
A cultivation and culmination
And overall manifestation
Of stress and frustration
Or a figment of a
Perfect stranger’s imagination.
But at the risk of waxing existential,
I don’t think we’ve considered
The absolute potential of
Being part of an extraterrestrial
Game of The Sims.
Being trapped at the whims
And mercies of martians
Or deities who let us
Virtually have no control
In our lives.
Question from Justine F. from Facebook
The heart keeps going,
Awake and wired like
A caffeinated child.
The heart rests
Takes a moment away from the race
And takes life at it’s own pace.
We don’t sleep when we sleep
Our brains don’t shut off,
Our heart keeps pumping blood,
Our lungs keep breathing
And maybe that’s why
We’re still tired in the morning.
Because rest is a lie and
Our bodies keep going.
We think we’re dead to the world
But we’ve never been more alive.
Our brain dreams,
Processing thoughts and actions
Like a machine,
Like a computer with the screen turned off,
Creating images and flickering lights,
Playing tricks on our minds and retinas like
A limited edition, one-of-a-kind movie
In a cinema screening that no one saw,
Except for a projectionist in a dark room.
And our heart is the soundtrack,
Heart strings and pulsing drum beats,
Slow and steady
But swelling to crescendo,
Racing to action
A veritable ventricle
drum and bass underscore,
Returning to legato then coming to rest.
And, like any true heart,
The protagonist in the story,
Arriving on dampened horseback,
Head- and heartstrong,
The knight in shining armour
Chasing nightmares and negative thoughts away,
Then riding into the sunset,
Reminding you to love yourself
Question from Amanda P. from Facebook
Mxcellany - Poetry, Music, Art 