what happens, happens

of course i write it.
we all do.
in a aimless haze of naivety
armed with invisible ink
we 'think'
(make a drink)
and pacify our notion that there
is no pen
in our hand
by demanding the truth must be tangibly seen
and therefore, we must not have written

it can be seen
one must know what they are looking for
otherwise one will never see

reading glasses will never help one see far away

i feel the pen in my hand
i know the words are there
i have understood their existence
as my explanation of fate

now: to stop my involuntary stream of consciousness from
pouring all over the page in uncensored chaos
and
determine the consequences of it

then
find a pen
with black ink

not red