the day i became an observer

recording of "the day i became an observer" 

My muse is walking

And my journal, my hand

And all these thoughts, jumping

Inside my head-I

Want to make them

STOP

I – can’t – make – it –

STOP

It

Stop

It

Stopped?

And now I long for it to come back!

You see, this is

An imitation

Of an

Imitation

Of my

Original poem

‘Cause walkin’s my muse and all these phrases

Jumbled up inside my mind- they

Make me jumbled up

Inside- and

I’m walkin

               (awfully) close- but

You don’t seem to mind- so

I think I’ll keep on {walkin’} by your side

And every conversation that you have

I think I’ll choose to overhear

So please don’t mine me [or]

If you do- just

Simply  w a l k   a w a y ;

I’m sure I’ll find somebody else who’ll

Make me want

To stay

You say there’s a killer on the loose but I’m not even seventeen so

I

can’t

take

Shortcuts- I

Can’t

Walk

Alone- and

I feel like S C R E A M I N G

There’s more killers than you know, more

Victims

Than you

[Choose to]

Recognize

You say the police sent out a statement

‘cause so and so left jail x amount of days ago and

now we’ve got ourselves

someone to beware of

in your

precious

sheltered

neighborhood- with

[ g o d   f o r b I d ! ]

an ex-con- and

I just feel like telling you

there’s

s o   m u c h   m o r e   h e r e

to take heed of

I mean, I appreciate your concern, man

But I don’t need to discern

{My} fact from {your} fiction.

You see, somewhere in my junkyard mind

Behind stored messy heaps and

Cluttered garbage cans

There’s this button that,

When triggered,

Tells me the difference between

{Your} “true” and {my} “false”

And it draws me a line to

(Guide me!)

between reality and dreams-

Though, I must admit

This line is some-

Times

Blurry,

Hazy,

Noteventhere

Maybe you’ll call me crazy

‘cause of this fact

but I think you’re a little more bizarre

simply ‘cause of that

so welcome to my world

on the day I think I [chose to] become

an observer-

when I really wished

there was a typewriter inside my mind

so every thought the muses gave me

would be recorded

and, in turn,

this poem would never have been written

nor the one that came before it-

‘cause the original,

the one I imitated twice,

would have been the (first) one written

                                             all things happen for a reason, I suppose

if my brain could talk

if my words could be graffiti on

the walls of my

junkyard attic- {addic}t-ed

                         to the world,

                         to spoken word,

                         to a muse that never stops when I need it to,

                         never comes back when I need it to,

                         never knows the right time.

                         addicted?

                         Maybe.

                         At least it’s not to something tangible…?