A Handshake, a Fist
i believe.
i believe in the muck, sweat, and grit
of a youth trying to find any truth
or validity in whatever desires
they suffer from.
whomever
whatever it is
that causes desire to feel like suffering
acts as the foundation
of the emptiness of our world.
we are all bound and connected to this.
yet we will always be strangers,
bound together
in a questioning, furrowed brow
of righteousness in our motivation.
trying is a statement of belief
driven by boredom, panic, pursuit, life, and relief.
the boat that holds us
as we consider our weight and each other’s
mindfully balancing, mindlessly cooperating
treading lightly in each shift
treading disturbances in ripples along our drift
the same boat we are all in
the boat is empty, if we are not happy
someone find me
tell me what to do
tell me how to be
i will listen
i will heed
i will crave
give me a goal i can feel, a goal i can conceive.
a goal more tangible
than these endless, fleshy reams of thought
dank and crowded bindings
sparking synapses in a cat’s cradle
Angst Reeks.
reeks of lemon rubbered naivety.
the only resolution is found
in a handshake, a fist
a gesture of beckoning
aimless direction, but direction nevertheless
finding comfort in a handshake, in a fist
let it find me
tell me what to do
how to be
i will listen
i will heed
i will embrace it.
treasuring a faceless future
tracing your form of shapes, shaping me
i welcome you and greet me.
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