Untitled by E.D.

It’s like hearing the right words and wishing you had said them.
And it’s like wanting to be a writer because writing is beautiful, but I can see the divide now
Do you see friend that we’re matter, we’re just made of matter.
I’d always thought you needed both but it has to do with changing forms.
The matter we exist in is the only one worth trying to understand, and we are so much less transitive than we think we are.
And I have found that there is nostalgia in questions the way there is in winter and piano keys. And we only ask the same questions, from the point that we are old enough to be conflicted.
I have been old enough to be conflicted for far too long.
And the strangest part is that no part of me is definitive
If I knew how to collect my thoughts,
I would not write.

Poem by E.D.