The Bookish Poem by Alexander Julian

The Bookish

Rating: 5.0

We have little to no experience for most
things in the world.Therefore, we might
as well be quiet about most things.You've
been looking behind your back, searching for
imaginary answers, while mostly we've been
in the darkness.Remember that there doesn't
have to be light for us to conceive a reflection
because most things can be imagined on with
unlimited guesses.My statement may seem
complicated and mysterious, but there needs
to be allowance for our brain functions so the
knowledge is guaranteed to work, as guess
becomes void and truth serves appetite.

You've been off in your own universe.At
times this roughness is expressed with
self-defeating causes and I'm wondering if there's
even one ounce of courage inside that
brain of yours.The vision is limited by action
from emotional standpoints, and, from this,
you've countered the guarantees.Even when
money stares in the face there's little dignity in
there to leave it off at a mark; it's like that soul
in your body which tears off the confidence,
the very soul you have, until another dispute
comes in the paper.Papers might as well
be your socket, your flame, the real essence
of time and despair and I'm worried for
you.Literature isn't your best strength; you
just happen to keep yourself to it often and
ideas from that soul don't get checked.You
question others but not yourself; therefore, you
don't know others.

Just an emotion can be a piece of ownership.
Sensation brings you back with it although
the feeling hasn't returned.It's like degrees,
it's like missing theories, turning you in to
destruction because the improvement in your
soul burns over revenge.Dreaming is easy.
What I'm mentioning is the disappearance
of erasure.Something calls for your guess
even when the number doesn't reach its finger
or leave a digit on the window.Happening
things are related to partial conclusions, subtle
evidence, shaken but not disturbed without

I hardly stand the point.Our solution is broken
up into art that withholds your transgression.
A fever, a maddening effect, runs on a clock
beyond recognition for spooks.With entry
the planet keeps its tongue along the digestion
of information like fears to plants, cages
to ownership, and that responsibility in you
chirps within means of dissolution.My fate
turns a second out of your hand during the
progression.Yet, the goal is lightened into
familiarity, the kind for intuition and not
so much guarantee, even as choice itself
damages any and all awareness.

Your fancy is confused as truth.So, from here
the point shakes on foundation as language
fills the void into false strength on your end
of the universe, vision tampered or opinion
forgotten, dreamlike and fashionable in pursuit
of happiness towards our claimed peace as
long as relations meet the chances right.For
this motive your leaning on virtue sits with an
altered process.The future, the past, rests
with the other.Obstacles pick up the color and
leave no bright trace where you're guessing
at reality.Realization, akin to dreams,
controls your instincts rather than confirmed
status, where even thought changes on itself
depending on faltered mind.

Tuesday, March 5, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: book,books,dream,dream time,effect,fantasy,illusion,madness,mind,opinion
Rebecca Navarre 07 March 2019

Soul searches and heart! .. Very powerful and moving writing! .. Thank you ever so much for sharing! .. Ever so many 10S! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! .......................+++++

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Bernard F. Asuncion 06 March 2019

An excellent piece, Alexander....10++++++++++++

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