Inheritance of Conflict

I find myself aching with tremors that are only relieved once the words can leave my mind and enter a place where others can view. An itch that only be scratched by stringing together the words into sentences,

And the sentences into paragraphs,

And the paragraphs into essays,

And the essays into novels.

Novels of all the things I don't understand, presented as though I have the apprehension of a scholar. I pray the lunacy of my ramblings resemble the scripts of old. A bible of untainted remark, and an elegance that sings each rambling as an ardent melody.

In each writing lies my tragedies,

A lifetime of derangement,

A lifetime of confusion,

A lifetime of unease,

A lifetime of craving more, craving less,

A lifetime of utter disregard for my own being,

Disguised as aplomb composition.

I fear the day my time is up, and the words must leave my apex as they confine themselves to another being. I have mastered the caverns of this mind, where another may not be as serendipitous. An unwarranted stream of rumination,

with no beginning,

and no end.