I am always so Preachy,
I try to escape it, but it clings to me.
Maybe I am that jaded,
But, the lack of desire I feel for the constant pool of calm hindu smiles I am swimming in,
still makes me a little unsettled.
I feel the angst,
And the anarchy deep inside.
To break what they crave,
Is a soul pleasing crash to me.
I cannot just go along,
My fake smiles can only gain so much ground.
I am climbing a mountain of dissolution,
And my truth will be keep me trudging to my upward clouds.
My soapbox has been worn so thin,
The wood is soaked and cracked
From blood, sweat, and tears.
The ever present debacles of preaching,
Have made it an antiquity of determination.
So do not get lost in my thoughts,
Maybe you have already tried to analyze and failed.
I no longer ask of anyone to walk a mile in my shoes,
Or stand an hour on that soapbox.
My positions on poetry, prose, and individuality are mine alone.
I will just say that this soapbox I call philosophy has become my cross alone to bear.