The mistrust surrounding me is burning holes out of the page,
As I scribble in circles
But pressure is building up behind the pen
As I struggle to break the cycle and
Maybe even regulate myself
At my own pace of course
Because if I lose control of my life, my free will
What's the point?
What's the point of any of it anyway?
Perhaps to influence evolution for the better,
By, in one way, adding our own unique vibrations to the pool of Being?
Or, by directly improving things or ways?
Perhaps to leave behind no footprints at all... Who knows?
All I know is my own fears, guilt, grief, anger, sadness, frustrations, reliefs, hopes-
Messy inside me
Leaking out of crevices and pores
Mixing up with everything within range of Ben Franklin's spectacles
Making an uncomfortably fitting landscape to watch unfurl
Like a perfect flower
In Infinity's garden
It's jealousy insults my intelligence.