Not a person to talk to,
Not a soul to trust,
A this solitary rate,
the hearts gate surly shall rust.
So again,
-its me and my pen
for these particularly peculiar days
When lightning strikes,
-the mind fights,
or when the pen has something more insightful to say.
People wear stickers because they are too afraid to be branded.
The impermanency, the versatility.
No more many men of conviction. Just dissention,
where their symbols can merely be peeled off and replaced.
Not worn in fear of letdown nor betrayal.
But fashioned to please, to be ahead, to be behind the lead.
The swapping of stickers in a way quite sickening.
A practice followed by those always needing to sell something
they themselves refuse to buy.
Stickers can be sides, each beyond a line,
yet with all the lower ranks kicking up dust, by deserting like the tide.
Barely a sword drawn, hardly a tail to find.
And then the avengers
Boredom, pain and malcontent seem the only ingredients
to birth those of conviction.
But as a single particle can bring life or death
when added to the equation
so do the words from the biggest of mouths.
Thoroughbreds on a course, eyes limited, nostrils a fire
Stampeding their voices over the terrain inhabited by those
who unlike themselves are actually affected.
Or the mules whose hard lives, contribute to self righteous ideals
hard to drop.
Soldier of god, patriot, the fanatical, the pawns of politics,
all in all nothing but fools with different chemistry.
Jaded and hated, for a reason, corrupted and used
Forever in no short of supply with the races always full,
of those near blind, by their speed to react.
Numbered and sponsored they all race to eventually stop
in the place they had started.
Running on empty and bearing stickers still.
There’s nothing wrong with being productive,
if you have to be productive.
Yet when every second of the day
and as every day fades away,
and at years end it leads you to say
-where has it all gone?, then something is wrong.
And what is “have to”?
Is it similar to having to breath,
or is it you know not another way.
Programmed. A sorrowful single current sea,
so fearful to just be.
A stubborn pillar erect and steadfast yet with fleeting purpose
amongst the rubble of the magnificent atrium that was to exist.
We are supposed to sleep eat and shit our days away.
That’s why we are here.
Why must we feel guilty for a gift given.
Why must we bring hell to everywhere we find heaven
Would you tolerate a child’s refusal to play with the toy you gave him
When it only seems to fills him with fear.
The child with worry in his brow,
will he use this toy as efficiently as possible.
Will his small hands find the always urgent desire to improve it.
Will he find away to carry it with him always,
not as a toy but as a burden.
Surly you wish not the puzzled puppy eyes looking to you.
For the simple joys he shuns always getting February from May
and to the natural world he becomes an orphan.
And what would you have to say to this boy?
A sympathetic speech to derive the difference from being driven
and driving your life away.
How often the tragedy when a gift leaves one confused.
The words you leave that troubled child
may be the same your god has for you.
 | david1963 on Your Oil, to My Sea |
