Conversations with the Unformed

A poem that writes itself
is like a subconscious thought.
An unwanted desire
that holds on.

To develop discipline in myself
seems like a lot,
'cause it can backfire.
Talk about what you know.

To understand what I felt.
A line made from copies of a dot.
To be honest, I am a liar,
too stale to be caught in a flow.

To provide for what I need.
Used for what I brought.
The rest is hanging by a wire,
unlike a sunken ship on the ocean floor.

To see the hand that I have been dealt,
long days, a beautiful life of sorts,
the kind that doesn't get tired.
In between the past and where we will go.

To weave a story from myself
takes more than just a bot.
Consistency, a virtue I admire,
an effective system for personal growth.

To examine the worth of my feats.
Quantify the adversaries I have fought.
I feel the need to conspire,
find my safe zone in the near and distant future.

To ride off a bridge into the sea,
no bungee cord, no parachute.
This is what we require
to truly experience creation.

To build faith in divinity,
you must listen to your heart,
with words that preach to the choir.
I stand at your door.

To concoct righteous deeds,
take two bottles of elixir gone corrupt.
Compare to see which one is drier.
My life thirsts for passion.

To have intent towards my creed.
Practise the ritual that I forgot.
Don't we all wish to be wiser?
I believe this is home.

To establish my identity,
having emerged from naught.
I need not build an empire.
I don't see a fitting throne.