I'll make this as convoluted as possible,
So you know that it's no joke.
I will make this into slam poetry
Without rhythm,
Without rhyme,
Without any reason at all.
Oh, yes.
And without an audience either.
Some things
You must digest alone,
Scratching all the old scars by yourself,
Because you suspect
That asking the only person who has answers
Will just make them hurt.
And yes,
You do care
About the person with answers.
I was there,
An innocent witness,
Yet far too green to grasp it all.
I was protected
From the black holes
And I am truly grateful for it,
Knowing now that they existed,
Though I didn't see them back then.
I only saw the pretty playful nebulas,
Which I looked at cross-eyed,
As if they were a toy.
"Did you ever fall in the black holes?"
I would ask the person with answers...
But I can't.
Somehow so long after the fact,
I see them.
I finally understand
The dangerous pull they had.
So I don't ask the person with answers,
I scrutinise the past
Through glasses fogged up by nebulas,
Squinting, no longer cross-eyed.
The nebulas are nebulous,
But I think the shadows are clear.
I drop-kick my prejudice (good riddance!)
And carefully extract my answer.
The answer.
The shadows only skirted the black holes
And just wadded through the murky nebulas for a while.
And though I think
That nothing good came out of it,
I'm glad
It wasn't worse.
PS. "What the hell were you thinking?!"
