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Balancing Act

Get up on the beam
tiptoe across its narrow valance
embrace the spotlight—cautiously
incorporate ever-increasing increments of
risky behavior, into each lapsing moment of the production you’ve
artistically created.

The body is the instrument we’ve each
been given—where even those greatly out
of tune, possess a harmony of their own—practice,
perhaps is really the only opportunity we each can fully grasp,
where the embodiment of naivety may be transformed
into a platform for creative incipiency

symmetrical reactions
to the metronomes inside

What is given birth to, will always be your child, ever be
your perfect moment of acceptance, even when shame
accompanies your blankets of desire—illuminating the process,
whether developed from sheer luminance or crafted entirely by deceptive means—after a passage of time collapses around the misjudged instrument, that gut-laden wrench of ensnared mesh, will
eventually be serrated from it’s sinewy hold, releasing that which is the antithesis of creative decree, yet, even in its newfound infancy, also beckons forth the impetus to stir the again, the clay

symmetrically advanced
methods for stasis and cathartic appeal
It burgeons the emotions
that only through the incorporation of time and
limitless expanding frames of undulating patter, can one ever
truly capture the entirety of perfect zeal, leveling out the instability that erodes the ruts created—those crumbling lines and scars, where
embracing ideations have also reared unexpected potency unto containers concealed within the realm of skewering complacencies—
and although it’s taken several decades to decode,
balance, finally will implode, unto it’s own design—inheriting
all the scraps and parcels often discarded in omission—where throughout the formative process, a variance of points relive each slightly seen yet often discouraged alignments of contortion’s determinacy—aptly and proportionally—until eventually you smile— unto that image forming upon the reflective screen—where balance finds its course—ever seeming to have mastered the craft of intrinsically bound schemes of illusory evasion—bringing about the balance that’s ever lingered outside your nets and snares, just never acknowledged as being part of the package and only slightly having been pondered before, as its consistency does now—replicates a piece of ensnarled string—packaging that dangles in it’s own uniquely flavored lines of alternating indices of sight

Finding the joy in opposites, the passion in chance
Giving balance
A struggling chance,
But chance still…
And symmetry has
A knack of finding
It’s other side


About hobgoblin2011

I'm a poet and aspiring screenwriter/songwriter with a passion for film, art, photography, philosophy and heavy metal. I love reading, mainly non-fiction, comic books, graphic novels, myth and reference. Family always comes first for me. I'm a proud father to two wonderful pups and two curious cats. I'm also a glutton for punishment aka the life of being a diehard Buffalo Bills and Sabres fan.

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