Bliss.

There is a place, a place that is not ours. It is a place we must find, a place that we must form. It is a complacent place we are in. Denatured, morphed, unrecognizable, gone away. It is a game of trail, a test to see who can survive such a place. Pass the test, leave the place and make your own. Leave the place, make your own, recognizable world, ordinary world, stronger world. Place of pure bliss, pure happiness, pure content in yourself and what lies beneath you, beyond you, in front of you. It is there, it is all you.

You can blossom in bliss, or you can be miserable in it.

Before bliss, there is misery. This is why we must be tested. Tested for truth and strength. Mental capacity to contain emotion, contain thoughts. Shuttering, shut off from the world. Cowering against the wall, with shadows and demons of fears and regret standing in front of us.. to each his own. There is an undeniable comfort in releasing the demons of fears upon yourself, but to allow them to soak in your blood that they caused. Resentment mistaken for passion. Or was it passion mistaken for resentment? Learn to survive, and you can leave the place of misery. Misery left a memory, misery left as a memory. Recognize the value of misfits, you are a misfit. A misfit in misery, you were. There is a test. It is called life. And as we must live, we must fight.

We must learn to survive. Only then can we blossom in bliss.

Pass the test, leave the place, make your own. Make it recognizable, beautiful. You’ve made it, and you very well deserve it. You have fought for bliss, you have fought for your bliss. You have fought for your place and have put your place in that place, and it needs you. No longer a vacuum of your own heart, bliss thrives. What has happened to you?

Alive but maybe not in that way. Which way? Alive in soul, body, mind, looking below. Remember bliss. Remember what is ordinary is not necessarily your own. We form our place, we form our home. You form your place, you form your home. Remember bliss. Bliss.. blossom. Bliss, misery.

Good, Gone.

We’re prisoners. Prisoners to routine, to society, to the lack of capable comprehension in our minds. Routine, different setting but same events, same repetition of saying and feelings. Where has the good gone?

In my drawer rests a bottle of liquid used to tame a wild beast. Pin straight, curly Q, waves on a beach, tamed. But other bottles, do they intend to break the beast out into a place where prison no longer exists? To release to the animals the aura of positivity, that is when prison does not exist. That is when it is released, when we as prisoners are released, when the comprehension of the mind reaches all horizon of certainty, with the idea of uncertainty and negativity dismissed into the inner abyss.

The good has gone from lack of creativity and intelligence. Lost through societal trends and mishaps, lost through obsessions of what does not really matter. Promote love, banish what you hate. Rather freedom than submission and darkness. Leave me here, left alone, to meditate on the unknown. To embrace the future, live the present, learn the past, be a prisoner to breaking out of this cell and creating a comprehension-able life to reject repetition and to finally find the good.

Make Believe.

Beautiful woman, so misunderstood. Taken but free, she is not me. Depicted as a woman beyond her own self, huddled in a corner writing to herself. Depicted as a writer far less than her own good, hidden talents are often grossly underscored.

What happened to her?

Stronger than her own mind, her heart has lost far too many fights. Yet appreciation lies at its core, fears and brainwashed manipulation keep her huddled in that corner, body on the floor. They said it was overdose. Murder was the cure. Lies and trust demanded by friends, she gave in letting them believe she was someone else within. Wise but young, taken from her own body, making me wonder, where is me?

Where is she?

Unhappy alone or unhappy with another, positivity can’t creep itself into the picture. Happy with her heart, not with her mind, or is it the other way around? I resign. Back and forth, write and scratch, tearing, crumbling, tossing talent in the trash. Believed lies, trust is lost, believing and trusting are simply dust. I am taken by the wind, my body in midair, trusting no one but myself, there is belief in nothing real.