Journal No. 5

A piece in a series of journals, my mind poured out on paper.

Journal #5

A poem by Alejandro Manuel Espinoza

 

I am lacking in my paradoxical mental priapism

parting a scarlet curtain of soft flesh –

dangerous lips –

maybe poison, perhaps, not.

 Oftimes I wonder I wonder if any pain is worth any pleasure.

The trade of the emotion is the true currency.

 

Hallucinogens have their taste,

and I can’t bear to desire without the dismissive touch of it. With nothing left,

focus on every small fragment that does not truly exist –

paste nonsense onto philosophy. Sometimes nothing seems real, and I must once again find the truth that is hidden in the lies.

 

So absorbed within my own psyche that at moments

I conflict with the nether parts of my cerebrum.

No longer primitive, but driven by some unknown yet centripetal force in the center.

 

But the heart doesn’t truly reside in the chest –

but the true heart is the center of life –

perhaps all feelings that flare here are as vulnerable as its fleshy recesses.

 

Confused to whether this is true or my own bullshit,

I spiral deeper and deeper into every conundrum I’ve ever presented to my mind’s computer – the severely, humanly flawed nucleus of all present interest in reality. If one could outsmart himself, and even truly have the ability to run and hide from himself, how can you know yourself? But it isn’t what or how - it’s why.  

 

Author's Note

A piece in a series of journals, my mind poured out on paper.