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.
Curving
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.
Heathen Come Home 