“It’s complicated”

Fuck this feeling.
I wanna write poems on cheap paper with a bad pen and scribbled half cursive and mispelled words.
Nothing is real without my definition of Reality and reality is not including me without some higher being currently.
Coating emotions with food and fears with sleep.
Hours wasted on thoughts running alone.
Thoughts stifled by absorbing media as was intended by the providers but perhaps not the makers.
This version of myself self prescribed as okay or bad or good or something. Typically a thing to change. Do I make sense? Can one understand me? Can I make a living on art and creativity or is art and creativity in spite of my living? Caused by my living?
If I was freely roaming could I freely create? Would I hate would I dissipate?
To reply. To do. To think. To create. To exist.
Complicated. Like a facebook definition of a relationship of a high school student who thinks they are practically engaged to the dude they once locked eyes with in a lecture.
“It’s complicated”
No set reality. No set definition.
Which is itself the definition.
The reality.
A paradox we only dream up to make sense of things with.
All is nothing. Nothing is all.

I hope this poem makes you feel things.
I just wrote it because I needed to stop.

Relative Phases

A description of darkness seems too dark in the light.
A perfect picture of light is too bright in the darkness.
The answer seems not enough with questions still lingering.
The questions seem too simple when the answer is given.

Reality on the surface seems to pull everything together.
Once things are realized the known becomes unknown.
In life we are unable to comprehend death.
In death are we able to comprehend life?

Search…

Everything is so much colder when the stars are out.
But everything’s so much clearer.
Everything is so much darker when clouds cover the night sky.
But everything’s so much warmer.

Is there some version of better that we are always searching for?
There are always pros and cons. This or thats. Rights and wrongs. 
The answers we search for controlling our lives.
The search. Controlling our lives.

Is there a perfect middle between the stars and clouds?
Is the search never ending?
Are we all in a never ending system of leveling up and down?
Is discovering this need to search enough to satisfy the need for searching?