Black keys on my whitewashed world

Are the only respite I can find

Some days


Numbers give me comfort when words say too much


I like circles and infinite lines

But never sqares and rectangles

Triangles are a mystery to me.

I want to figure them out.

Like everyone else

But they hide from me

Almost as much as I hide from them

With their pointy edges like accusatory fingers always calling me out for the liar and cunning thief that I am


I am thief. A robber of time. My own time.  Robbing myself blind.

But it is not a complete blindness

Because I never complete anything.

It is a blindness that allows me to watch the whole crime take place

On a stage of shadows and colors before me

When all I want to do is turn around and face the wall and study its cracks because those are

Infinite lines.


Never forming any shapes

Like me.

Curving .

Never forming any shapes

Never becoming a square or a rectangle

(even though I wouldn’t mind being the trapezoid I’m not)

Never becoming a triangle because I can’t hold myself up.

Never becoming a circle because I’m afraid of what happens when I return to my origins

Never becoming a star because

It’s too hard.


It’s too hard to become a shape. A figure.

I’d rather be an infinite line.

With no direction.

An unwanted line on the wall

That just won’t go away

And gets ignored for so long that it is allowed to grow into the most beautiful, indescribable, unknown shape-less thing not called Art.


About heathencomehome

question marks & ellipses
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