MANIFESTO (Post Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder)

What is this I'm trying to understand?
Is their a philosophy for the uninitiated,
a politics for the unwashed,
a living for the hidden?

What is the language of your tongue,
as it glides through the sticky
quagmire trying to be
unbound
unstuck
unencumbered?

I'm sick of tyring to understand something I just can't seem to grasp.
I'm floating somewhere in the in-betweens of
les langues et les paroles --
Concepts, abstractions, elisions
diphthongs, give me something concrete to bite on.

I only wanted to realize your words are actually tied to your tongue
or to your soul
not as waterless fonts
or wingless birds,
needing to fly free
just to be free --

The freedom is never enough
when you don't know what you're free from.
Shackles hold tight through the years
and the illusions
and the complacence.

But I must give you this,
there is something to be said
for wanting to remain hidden
away from prying eyes that seek only
to see you as though you
were a strange, eerie, other-wordly some
thing

Or wanting to claw back,
at the same eyes that see you
unknowing.

And I can understand your needs
and I don't want to hold so tight
that the easy breathing gives way to rasps.

But tell me, how do I decipher
the enigma laid out in front of my feet,
or the tightly bound tourniquet around my heart?

How do I unravel the intersections of what ifs and maybes
and the forever, unanswerable, why?

No, I'm not an embittered body,
or a broken string,
others have held up under more severe strain,
but the questions linger
and the bitter continues to rise...