In this day and age everything that seems ''new'' in my mind has probably already existed.
So if everything I think has already been thought and every word I write has already been written then what's really left to say?
Is the concept of being unique or original even a possibility anymore?
Tag: Poetry
Free
Within those moments
my entire reality became suspended.
It felt like the idea of time
no longer concerned me
and that I had finally found
my long-sought peace.
Gone were the worries
and intrusive thoughts
hindering my existence.
The world around me
had simply faded away...
and all I felt was free.
Time
I hate time. I wish it would stop.
I wish time would pause, take a break, and forget to restart.
I wish that the hands on the clock would inexplicably stop ticking their way through moments that will never come back and that the squares on every calendar were occupied with events that would never occur.
I wish that the future didn't exist so that my days with you were countless.
I wish that time would simply stop so that my life with you was endless.
Maybe
Yes, maybe now it doesn't feel the same.
Maybe now everything has changed and shifted to the places once unknown to us.
Places so distant that now we feel closer as strangers than we ever felt as we did together. Maybe each day my feelings have evolved into emotions that I never thought my brain could possibly possess.
But maybe now it somehow all feels better.
Maybe now everything is how it always should have been.
Tightrope
How didn't I know it was coming to an end?
It was inevitable, unsustainable, completely unrealistic.
Each day the tightrope I was walking had become less taunt, every step just a bit more precarious than the last.
It was bound to break at some point
and I knew that.
I guess I just wasn't expecting
that abrupt of a snap.
Simultaneously
Are memories formed within the exact moment we experience them?
Can a split second simultaneously become the past and present as the neurons in our brains try to differentiate between the now and then?
Are we able to remember the details of everything happening to us as if they have already happened?
How do we know where the timelines truly begin?
Or when the memories actually end?
Secrets
Part of me is desperate to write it all down and spill my secrets like fluid across every inch of my notebook.
That piece of me craves a cathartic release from every corrupt thought and moment that I've ever had.
Yet if all those fragile fragments are expelled from my head they no longer belong to me...
And there's nothing to gain from that.
My secrets are sacred...
For they have created the version of myself that only I will ever be able to know.
Parked
For twenty seconds
I parked on the tracks.
Even without a train in sight
I felt my mortality being threatened, vulnerable and exposed between
those oxidized iron rails.
My mind,
pulsating with adrenaline,
screamed at me to move
from the precipice of danger
with each ragged breath.
Yet for twenty selfish seconds
I kept myself there.
Stagnant and stupid.
Wide-eyed and white-knuckled.
Thorns
Thoughts become embedded
into my brain like thorns.
They bury their sharp edges
deep into the vulnerable seams
of my subconscious,
silently smirking at their inability
to be removed.
Over time I forget about them
as they lie there quietly,
dormant in their watchful wait.
Their presence swiftly returning
the second my mind
starts to stir.
Words
Words have a lasting impact,
even the most seemingly insignificant ones.
Simple sentences morph into occult scars
that radiate with permanence and persistence within our heads.
Intrusive echoes left to remind us
of days long past and moments long gone.
Mere words become our
blessings and burdens.
Easily spoken,
yet impossible to forget.
AO Poetry 
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