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.
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.
My life is like the quiet old nursing home I pass by on my way
With the ambulance on standby each and every day
For death is the only thing that could possibly be eventful
The stale stagnated and repetition
There is no growth here, only decay
I’m merely waiting for death in this old town of mine
Where your goals and dreams may be abandoned haphazardly
Left faded and forgotten in the mind
Drinking and drugging as the sick
Deciphering our dementia
Are old tricks and cheap kicks
As a person I cease to grow
And my soul atrophies, though
I have no need to be a somebody
But I will not condemn myself so early
To living the life of a nobody
So I continue to walk on
In a solace song
The cold branches left upon the yellowed grass
Tight and only capable of snapping
How can I go from life’s stick to sapling?
I’d rather be a palm tree dancing in the wind
Yes above a playground that my life should be
No more bronzed heads of people in my history
Just smiling strangers
On my swing, my slide
Then off into the world gone by
I used to feed ducks as a child
Now I feed debts
Big nasty swans that I could avoid then
Surround me now
These trees I once climbed for fun
I now scale to get away
When your joys become necessities
You’re dieing.
Standing on ground that isn’t actually there.
Stability in an unstable world is a state of mind,
A fragile illusion that lets you walk on air.
All obstacles are anthills at a bird’s eye view
Speak to voices that don’t exist, and ignore the ones you hear.
Don’t go looking for more and be wary of the ones that find you
The jabs, putdowns, the complaints are all down there
Feet callused through concentration, their words are merely splinters
to be stepped on and rubbed into that path you cannot share.
That path that’s not there
As long as you continue to walk forward,
the daggers cannot get you from behind.
Eat light, sleep deep
And drink only water or wine.
The real world, yeah its down there,
Full of distasteful distraction and many screaming splinters
There is no success to be found down there
Only here on the path that’s not there
There isn’t any better visibility up here
But there also aren’t any blasted walls
So what if it’s just an illusion in the air
Credit the resourcefulness of the human mind
There may always be potholes to send one plummeting to the world down there
But on this path, no one will ever fall behind.
I’m a writer
I talk ten times more than I write
And ponder a thousand more times than I talk
The thinking drives me insane
The talking drives everyone else in sane
But the written word is the score at the end of the game.
I have no place, no face
That may be the way I was meant to be
The complexity of destiny
I can feel the soldier, I can be the priest
But those I am not in the least
The spiral stairway vacuum
May suck the air away,
though it does not exist, not then, not today
it’s all a line with tangential dreams
and anger spawns from the misleading themes
I have no place, no face
With real love and real animosity
Still a breathing entity with empathy
I can see the pauper, I can hear the simple
My fear for them a continuous ripple
The illusions can consume
one loses balance loses feel
the task is to see what is the absolute real
When things are transparent, and you can see seams
For those with a destiny, life is but a dream
My life is art
I live to the strokes of a brush
For the melody, by texture
By the mood, for color
It’s a soliloquy on canvas
Epiphanies given and received
Stand like marble statues in the scales of one ways
A strong note
Smiles, sorrow, songs of different days
Paths to prayers, the heights of hope
Spatter and cross the white
Like a light rain spotting your face
In melancholy
Fragile feminine fingers lost in the fray on my head
To spider climb the terrain
Slide down my back with a hint of passion
Trim, turbulent, tummy, supporting my head lost in the fray
To hold on and resist slumber
As fragile feminine fingers get lost in the fray
Lethargic, longing or lost in the fray
To retreat to as storms hover above
When one knows of a few safe places to stay
Whether weaken, in love or lost in the fray
Best to sail for safe harbor
in the presence of female company.
Where there is humility
There lies no pride
Which allows one to appreciate
Than find reason to envy
Where there is generosity
There thrives no greed
So one can find balance in essence
And know not of gluttony
Where we lust humanity
Pointless is wrath
While sloth is a born right to living,
a Sunday priority.
I am no one
You spend many year, finding whom you are
Organizing all that made, makes, and will create you
Then, once you find it. You let it all go
Becoming someone that no one understands
But something truly apart of the everything
What am I?
A nothing, a no one
Without reason, nor season
An animal, a god
Light, sound and molecular chemistry
Computed all into a single face
Simple ego
To fit into the micro-world
What are you?
