One Hell of a Weekend.
by rewired
9/11/99
There’s something wrong, and I’ve known it all along
that feeling creeps up from the depths of me
guiding my life unconsciously, to keep away from a harmful memory
I block out all associations
that certain smell, the certain fear, the intensity that rushes
and I laugh it off, but when it’s there it cracks a hole inside
and I quickly close the doors and focus, obsessive-compulsive
on something objective so I can hide
it’s shallow hypocrisy, for I worry about others who do
the same damn thing, the things that remind me of others who do
what is this, really? Is this what it seems?
Who’s off -- me or reality? Is it all real, or multi-layered dreams?
I think it’s a lie until I see those eyes
they guise themselves, but I know
who they are, their masks don’t fool me
little gray shadows from a vast black sea
of all, why people like me? and him? and her?
Why the mind-fucks? Why spend the time, as We wonder,
trying to read between the lines that stretch
forever and cross-hatch, until everything comes down
to their existence
are we slaves? Guinea pigs? Evolving in the guidance of teachers?
Pawn in some game beyond our current comprehension?
And what of him? Her? I? -- what do we do with this
when more revelation comes to pass? How can one
live the life of the mundane after being there,
seeing them -- being them?
What do I do with this thing inside me?
Pain inconceivable, fear inconceivable --
vistas of reality inexplicable?
Topped with the troubles of our human world,
the troubles of our lives as social beings
in a twisted society gone astray and doomed to collapse?
Don’t the rest sense it; don’t they question
beyond their rigid tunnel vision?
And why can't I see beyond my own?
by rewired
9/11/99
There’s something wrong, and I’ve known it all along
that feeling creeps up from the depths of me
guiding my life unconsciously, to keep away from a harmful memory
I block out all associations
that certain smell, the certain fear, the intensity that rushes
and I laugh it off, but when it’s there it cracks a hole inside
and I quickly close the doors and focus, obsessive-compulsive
on something objective so I can hide
it’s shallow hypocrisy, for I worry about others who do
the same damn thing, the things that remind me of others who do
what is this, really? Is this what it seems?
Who’s off -- me or reality? Is it all real, or multi-layered dreams?
I think it’s a lie until I see those eyes
they guise themselves, but I know
who they are, their masks don’t fool me
little gray shadows from a vast black sea
of all, why people like me? and him? and her?
Why the mind-fucks? Why spend the time, as We wonder,
trying to read between the lines that stretch
forever and cross-hatch, until everything comes down
to their existence
are we slaves? Guinea pigs? Evolving in the guidance of teachers?
Pawn in some game beyond our current comprehension?
And what of him? Her? I? -- what do we do with this
when more revelation comes to pass? How can one
live the life of the mundane after being there,
seeing them -- being them?
What do I do with this thing inside me?
Pain inconceivable, fear inconceivable --
vistas of reality inexplicable?
Topped with the troubles of our human world,
the troubles of our lives as social beings
in a twisted society gone astray and doomed to collapse?
Don’t the rest sense it; don’t they question
beyond their rigid tunnel vision?
And why can't I see beyond my own?
