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My Thoughts on the World and My Writing
The content of this journal can range from passing thoughts in the style of stream of conciousness to intense stories, poetries, and prose.
The Thinker: An Epic Poem
He kneels atop his rock of clay,
A mere molded form upon a stone,
Who ponders every thought, all day,
But despite their comfort, he sits alone.

He lives within the mind deranged,
An active brain beneath the façade
Of moss-cloaked biceps, cracks, and stains,
Tangible, like echoes of drowned applauds.

Although his stance is sedentary,
And he whispers not a sound,
His mental prowess never varies,
And of that, he is quite proud.

For even though passersby revel in his beauty,
His toned shape, and robust jaw,
They never can grasp the truth beneath,
What on the surface they all saw.

For he adventures to lands far and wide,
Beyond the corporeal limits of the Earth.
Standing amongst giants, flanking their sides,
His mind, not body, is a place of birth.

Only he envisions himself as a man,
The most horrifying creature,
Who kills the beasts and ravages land,
Until even Gods cannot measure
The gravity of such destruction.

And as a man, he would not waste,
The precious time that he holds dear,
Because rather than live in haste,
He would rather live beyond his seers,
And his mortality, he shan’t ever fear.

He sails his ship upon the sea as Odysseus did long ago,
And battles all the Sabertooths for every Mammoth hide.
He knows Julius Caesar as a worthy foe,
And as an Atlantian, the current, he rides.

He travels to depths of the abyss,
And feeds Cerberus his tasty toll,
To gain entrance to the anti-bliss,
Of the world’s darkest place of old.


His breath is hot as Hell’s fire,
And his scales burn while his claws curl,
His stomach never full, never tired,
As a high-pitched bellow does he hurl.

He wields the sword of Arthur, King of Camelot,
And his faithful servants follow, like loyal Lancelot.
He preaches to his knights, of bravery, through and true,
Dictating that they may find they must bid their lives adieu.

Now, underneath his placid face,
One never would suspect,
That he could run a thousandth pace,
Round circles of detection.

And scouring the ground like an eagle,
His eyes remain forever fierce,
But his smile fades and becomes feeble,
As reality seems to pierce:
For he knows not to fly the skies,
Or whisper the wind’s call,
And he would sooner greet his death rather than fall.

His wounded heart,
The core, rotten and maimed,
Another mere frozen part,
Of his immobile pain
Reflects his desire to escape,
From his ever-thinking state.

His mind may be a playground,
But his soul has become dead.
His thoughts may frolic round and round,
But, they’re only in his head.

He yearns for life to be reality,
Not a pensive figment of his dreams,
But he waits and suffers silently,
As he hears the laughter and the screams,
Until his thoughts can be fulfilled,
He is but a statue, a man to be redeemed.

Is the man in truth a statue,
Purely a marble recluse,
Or is he a deadened soul,
With only imaginings in his control?


Reference Image: "The Thinker" By Rodin





 
 
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