The Ghost That is Within Me

Shallowness and sadness ensues, but I want to believe we can get by with very little
and that that greed of a country doesn't phase me, will no longer phase me.
And I want to say I have finally uncovered the fear or mess of living in a space
And that was that it is beyond what is meant for me.
What is possible, feasible and real for me as a unity.
Uni, Solo, or unsolidarity.

I crave for a simpler life and simpler existence
and I crave for nothing new. nothing. just the old and simplistic
And if you hadn't noticed this is all bullshit I am not sure who what or why
Where I was trying to be, live, what I was trying to be, and why I am trying to impress me?
And, now when I say going underground, I don't mean I am going to give up the lipstick
Does this mean it is a shallow irreverant meaningless chide, carrying a simple tote with your Chanel sunglasses, when you're a sample sale bride? I cannot even stand to write because I'm standing forever in the moonlight, of darkness. There is not enough light.

I am screaming inside for the mess I created, mess I caused, mess I believed would save me my sanity but in the end it became a burden which ate away at the innards every single day.
It didn't work the way it should have, on paper plates I never ate.
So I straddled the worlds, coming from too much, never giving up the ghost, wanting to have too little, but unable to live down the five stars.

Now, I say is when am I going to stop doing the things doing the do's, reality please save me from the mess that could drag me under further, drag my soul any deeper down under. I wonder if it is ultimately doomed. There is little pleasure in writing the words anymore as solvenly duty and the worldliness of the world has taken over my entire body and soul.

I still remember the day at the Laundromat, somewhere in the Valley. Reading the posted notes in Spanish. Broke and blissful. I wish I could hang on to that day. It was a hot day in LA.

I wanted a return to slim pickings, but when I got there I froze my ass off and when I returned to a warm safe space, I see it is sucking me dry statistically, realistically, fundamentally, I want to give it all away. I think I would give it all away. Although quitting doesn't suit me, and I don't want to throw anything away. Didn't I work hard and struggle? Probably not. Sometimes I feel like a spoiled imbicile. Why do I deserve this grail? Because, somehow, it doesn't make sense. None of it. The world between safety, warmth and simplicity that I straddle daily.

I said I wanted the wheels and since then I have changed my mind and as I write I like to think that I have given up that ghost but I have yet to find solidarity in the ghost that is within me. Because despite my strength, I know the influence and judgment of the worldly wordy despots may continue to dig in me.

Can we go to a different plane and still live in the City of Angels, or any mega city or suburb in the Western world for that matter, or are we forever doomed to straddle that of the plight of la boheme and the business man?