Matter, I have none to consider. stagnant . The quagmire is treacherous and teasing roadblock. Beheaded. Cleaved. Who am I to think? I forge a pedestal of vanity and sit atop my velvet throne, I My thoughts are I have no authority to Think. But even this thoughtstoppingthought is a victim to the bog. This further thought flings me into self obsessive depression. I am vain Self-awareness is a curse. I am all art and minimal matter “Thus conscience does make cowards of us all”
I frolic in art, yet create nothing.
I am
My thoughts do not flow.
They stew and fester in their own slime.
An idea strays
unbidden
into the marsh land of my mind.
like a woman.
The idea treads gently, naively,
on shadow assumptions.
Momentarily,
it totters, on the brink of consummation-
Splintered by self-consciousness.
What am I to think?
passing judgement on Life and Existence.
Think
but I am no Thinker
as a child with a crayon is no Artist.
unworthy, unoriginal, unrefined.
I am but a bitter, bitching, postulant to Intellect.
Like Judas, my thought betrays my thought.
I wallow in vanity again,
pretentious enough to pity my apparent inadequacy.
That further thought flings me into vain self disgust.
vain
vain.
I will forever be aware of my vanity,
my penchant for art,
my lack of matter.
all morass and minimal direction
all talk and minimal walk.
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