[Be]ing

B.J. Hughes--
Never to be Paraphrased.
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I am..
The Poetry. The Hues. The Music. The Art. The Metaphysical. The Becoming. The Subsuming. The Paradoxes. The Love. The Insanity. The Thoughts. The Dreamer. The Food. The Cheeks. The Smile. The Gap. The Wonderful. The Outerversal. The Tidal. The Wave. The Woman. The Sex. The Passion. The Magic. The Fluctuation. The Time. The Death. The More and Not Yet Done. The Blu.
I live to Exist, my Love.
One name is not enough for me. Call me what you want; just come correct.
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"The ink of a scholar is worth a thousand times more than the blood of a martyr."--Lupe Fiasco
I make change like token machines. -blu
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The Philosopher
I, the paradox defined, the product of an open mind, the collector of common and uncommon sense combined, the horizon’s imagined horizontal line, embody the soul’s myth, the heart’s dream, the life’s line. I am the hand that reaches and never finds, but I reach… For I do seek a deeper meaning that underlies the lies and/or beliefs that reek of factuality. And all that has propelled me into the raid of Heaven and Hell’s sky is the mere question of “why?” I am only representative of the unenlightened child, once dignified with ignorance, searching for a purpose worthwhile. I feasted from the “tree of knowledge” with no serpent near to bite my style until my belly compiled all the nutrients of wisdom wild. And while this wisdom is my torture, I am still a bud of innocence, breast-fed by Reality’s guile. So all that has constructed me into the product of an open mind was naturally provided by this existence and its recycled mines.
To be called a thinker imprisoned by the depths of her own mentality isn’t quite a fallacy, just elastic accuracy…for here lie the hyperboles. I am not constricted by life’s obscurities. I, instead, strictly consist of life’s mysteries. I question poetically, beckon curiosity, request reason, and suggest hypothetically. So if I’m entitled anything, can it not be humanly? For I’m the anthropomorphic statue of a dream… The romantic phantom composed of every living theme… The story of pages waiting for spaces to be teemed… The child held hostage by what the lacks of Life deem…
I, the official misconception, the upholder of perceptions, the collector of reflections, the orthodoxy’s exception, humanize the ambiguity mistaken as intellectual slavery. And if this is who I am, then there is really no saving me.
Authorship: B.J. Hughes