not to condemn the world

actionablity, humility, miles to go

Where does one go, with no home?
What in, no squandering of this—‘now’.
Who writes, when there’s no one to write to,

I worry endlessly on the passes of time, like actions that keep up w/ me through it all.
Seeing the absolute barren soul—only I, have.
To darken it—it would have to take me, first.
Would you volunteer safety towards the end of the world?

I wouldn’t.

Yes, no…I don’t know, truthfully.

I’ve been de-fragging my headspaces like, where does it all go when I fall asleep. What’s lost on the road here,
Does anyone ever, have their grenade properly “cooked”.
Let it go, maybe it will blow up in your face—not.

And on the worst of it, there’s still tomorrow—an itch to receive.
Give me the Hollywood Hills, and I’d still find a way to tell it how, it means nothing.
I sat outside, doing therapy instead.

I’ve seen healing through tenses, always.
Past, Present, Forward.
Being complacent on the latter, is where my brain goes.
Each, and everytime.
With writing, it’s quiet.
Stillness, liminal-versed words parsed through the tips of my fingers—I didn’t expect it to be so easy.

Seeing paragraphs form off no good thoughts, they come back around. The words need to eat—just as I would never admit, I too. Need sustanence.

So then,
You find it, cataclysmic thoughts to ruminate on. Barrells of evil to sip from—actionability would get me, you—someone, there.
Off into guises, there will always still be a search for home.

Not in straight forward tenses,
But echos, vibrations, innate wholeness—like a home. But never to be worn down like the foundations will, in the distant future.
For longevity,
is where mountains birth,
Where creeds follow to vessels,
Birds lay nest,

And somewhere, I—take.

If, and then a thought were to finally emerge, I would call it out.
Blank space intices me, always—it means there’s cavities to fill in.
Almost like the ones in my mouth I’m sure I have, fillings, drills—I’m still terrified of the Dentist.
Maybe only, for disapproval sake.

But even professions have ends to meet.
The ones we spend so much time of a worried feedback loop towards—what do you mean, “It’s not a big deal”.
It smells like flouride, and jaw aches.
—maybe one day.

On actions, trying to get towards. It should start small. Even with the eyes already locked there on the path—an end.
For even if there’s a sight ahead, is there any telling what may come up in the middle of it all? or the beginning—or the split second you have until breaking through the ribbon, as the first.
First of whom, exactly?

Enjoy the rush, or drown in the deep—I’m afraid.
Bask in the sun like the crows.
Follow intertia until they scream.

For there are never things in final, I’m once again—afraid.
There are just predispositions, you found acclimation with,

I think now, too in,
Loving regardless,

& Thank it too.

-alice

xoxo