A Copy: Recycle

Nothing I could say, per-say,
But I can barely speak.

Crystal wrap- I taste the plastic,
And desperation.

Swollen and garbled,
The sentence structure of delusion,
Laughter and fever dreams
The glistening allure of the ideal, surreal.

Humility, I feel humility
For all the thoughts that I dream
For all the concepts I deem new,
They are all the same.

Everything I say, has been said,
What I think, has already been thought;
My dreams have joined the myriad
I am the recycling bin.

What then do I truly possess?
Naked I enter and leave.
Worse still, all I accumulate,
Is ash.

Even myself
Especially myself.
My journey is recycled.

Even now, all that I find within myself,
Is a mere copy of another predecessor.

Hello, you.
I am the accumulation of my experience,
A basket of collected thoughts and cultural influence.

Closure.
I read the middle and the beginning,
I wonder, how it ends.

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Published by

opalflame

I am artist, analyst, author, poet, composer, musician to name a few aspects of myself. A bit of a jack of trades, I dabble into many fields that encourage the blossom of imagination and allow me to channel my creativity. I dream vividly and view the world through the lens of optimism and opportunity while acknowledging the ink and shadows.

You've lent me your ears... now borrow mine:

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