Subconciousness is my native tongue,
and it has always been difficult to translate.

Sophistication of thought has long evaded me:
if you listen closely,
you may notice the chimes of foolishness
that spring untamed from my reckless lips –
sparkling riffs of summoning or chiding
but
never too exact
(for there is comfort even in spoken anonymity).

Language, they say, sets us apart –
it is cognitive and complex,
sharper than a whetted blade –
it is the drawstring between the borders
of earth and unity, and

I am
   the pendulum
      that swings
   between
reason
   and confusion.