The Source

World is crashing down inside of me,
eating away all the hope and truth until little seeds of failure creep into the spinal cords that connect to my drenched being,
trying my best,
but falling into the pit of shame.
Only a tiny bit can develop,
as the rest of me is shriveling,
shrinking into a dried out rain,
that was burnt, bashed, ashamed, stupidity and regret
will not stop to give me a break,
for all it does is keep on rising and rising until all that is left of me is two decapitated fingers,
swollen with frustration and suppressed anger.

Another line is heard, read, seen, and felt.
As little scruples of young children prodigies turn at my face, staring at my desolate pupils, as they laugh, and sneer at my normality,
my plainness, though I cover myself in color,
immerse myself into much more than their puny,
incompatible, narrow brains can handle.
I can hold much more than you, simple children, can tell.
I am rivers deep.
Swimming in the filth of this world only to dive, straight in.
While all the rest peer through the clear, durable wall of glass,
one mile thick.
Only I can step through the barrier, and speak, talk, communicate
with the nature, behind that indestructible glass.
Only me.
Only I can see what’s real, the truth, the future, the words speak to me, and jump into my pockets, just as whispers of wild animals and plants, living breathing articles of life that flourish without our existence.
But we cannot live without them.
Those children prodigies and I have something in common.
Only one, finite thing.
It is that they cannot explain where this power comes from,
where my writing comes from, my ideas, and soothsaying.
It just comes, through the voice of dreams.