Where have I arrived?
This place is so foreign,
Much like my entire life before,
Proceed as I must along a strange path of fog.
To tell the truth is somewhat of a strange ideal in this world today.
Story tellers and wisdom bringers have always been on the outskirts.
The writers I read are caught in my midst.
I desire the norm sometimes,
But get caught with their ink in my head and desire to write in my hand.
I am always questioning, when I should just let loose to a release.
I am not my desires, or the perceptions I throw onto myself.
To be the poet I desire, is to fall deeper down the rabbit hole of discontent.
I have been around and see what the purpose is thought to be,
The illusion in me sees so much more.
An island of possibility is where I get stranded,
With only smoke signals I send for you to see.
I value myself way to much to be diminished and put aside,
To be the one and only desire of another soul is my vision quest.
Anything less would be a lack of conviction of my worth in this world that I constantly struggle to break down.