Cycles Of Flawed Perspectives
Channel: The Mind That Writes
Date: 16/08/2019

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Cycles Of Flawed Perspectives

A multitude of words scrambled to resemble order
will eventually drown, get lost in disorder
as the brittle views, ideas that are written down
crumble to the slightest touch,
indeed, it may be too much to assume, criticise
analyse, deconstruct, mock the bedrock of thought
knowledge -
  regardless of its kind, creed, systems of value
  validity and adherence to truthfulness.

First, I must accept the weakness of my character
that fails to stand on two feet, it's limping
in the face of adversity, on crutches, impeded
bogged down by the myriad of masks that I wear
when I stare into the all consuming abyss
of my own flaws, shortcomings that short circuit:
a vision of clarity, a dream of becoming
hope for belonging in the bosom of the great Mother,
fortitude longing to become strength.

Second, I should recognise that the voice
of the great critic within always offers a choice,
how easily, how hard it falls silent
in the absence of the internal monologue
fuelled by the monotonous, repeating, analog
shades of 'not being good enough',
The movement of whose eyes do I follow
as my, their fixate on a point
that does not bulge, will not indulge
into anything constructive -
the destructive impulse is given, I'm driven
to crash full force, head banging against the wall;
which I have built, groomed with the enormous
amount of guilt, shame radiating
from my former selves.

Third, being unable to escape the unstable
cycles of flawed perspectives grows quickly boring.
Everything they offer are drunken lines
they do not speak, instead they stutter
imitating a speech that will be written tomorrow
by an ideal oozing sorrow -
echoes of fragmented time, divided into separate soundbites
in a soundproof room, falling on the deaf ears
of a mute trying to speak.

Stop,
the mechanism behind a gulp
is bound to rust, the cost of being driven to write
fluctuates between not being worthy and accepting
the absolute failure of your every choice.
Rightly so,
  that will not stop me, it cannot
  occasionally, by pure coincidence
  I will stumble into
  something worth saying
  that alone -

A lone reflection on liquid in a plastic cup
caught by eyes willing to seek
through cycles of flawed perspectives,
the absurd and bleak visions
pierced by a single ray of light -
it's source, a light bulb stubborn enough
to stay lit until electricity ceases to flow.