Unfinished

unfinished.  my life is tangled with untold, unfinished stories, threads just left - lost to the wind, flailing frantically, fretting as if there is somewhere to go in a hurry, as if to not escape holds an eminent destructive end. but their flickering is a reminder of the life they hold, their stories that forever go untold, buzzing with life, they cannot die, there is no home for them, there is no conclusion, no closure, a start without a finish, life without a home, there is no forgetting, you cannot forget yourself, you cannot shed what you cannot control, they are apart of you and yet in some way they are not.  these threads make up fields of "what if's" that thrive and simmer at the roots of of your soul, they are just inches old, leaving lengths of doubt, questions, curiosity, mystery-- slowly poisoning the reality you've reached, a reality you've reached at their cost, and now in turn they repay you, like weeds thirsting for water in a wasteland, inking shadows into your view, forcing life to become skewed-- tattered with ruins, and no, no you'll never know just what they want you to. never.

Reviews

[roarke]

Lots of intensity here, lots of burning questions to fire the mind's neurons. Unfinished, a full life seems always unfinished until the final moment. Everything is a part of everything else. Nice write.

[Kent Smotherman]

I really like this concept, especially how the theme is reflected in the lack of formatting. Very nice work.