Who's idea of right and wrong
are you trying to live
Is this your idea of it
Is this your idea of what's right
Truly?
There are so many people out there
that are so far away
from themselves
from any real truth
from everything
They are so gone
so lost
so blinded
They wander after someone else's view
of what's right
what's good
what should be seen
Their eyes are turned blind
detached from their own mind
from their own insight
from their own spirit
their own view
So many blinded eyes looking at them
directing them how to see this way
perpetuating the blind views of this world
making it so hard to look back at them
or anything they leave in view
The darkness behind their eyes will not shine
The directions their eyes look do not become illuminated
The light is still in there somewhere
it has to be
but there is something else in its way
something someone put it there for them
and they like it there
They enjoy not seeing
in the same way as so many others
They think that right and wrong is by consensus
or by proxy of the prophetic
They look to people they think can see past them
that can see in ways they can't comprehend
to show them the way
or tell them what is there
so they don't have to see it
or don't have to worry over not seeing it themselves
For them it isn't necessary to see
only to look to those that can tell them
of what they describe as sight
They look down on everything else
all the other views
for if anyone sees things differently
it must be wrong
because they have been shown what's right
or seen the ones that have
Even the ones that have perhaps seen something
right in their own eyes
can't bear the sight of others
if they do not see like them
Everyone is trying to see what's right
trying to see it all
trying to show everyone else
trying to see it in everything, everywhere
Obsessed with this view of what's right
the eyes see very little of what is there
so little of what might be
so little of what is to be beheld
so little of what is left
to be seen
I've seen enough of this blindness
in my own eyes and others
Don't be like this
Don't try to see what's right
Don't try to blind yourself, detached from your own eyes
Don't try to be right
Be honest
If you think you see things clearly
keep looking
Don't worry about showing anyone else
they can see it for themselves
and if they don't see it there
it isn't for them to see
Now take a look around you
and look away from me
take your eyes off of these words
and see whatever you truly see
but not because I told you
because that won't open your eyes to anything
that hasn't already been seen
but look out for all these things
that go on
sight un-seen
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Saturday, January 24, 2015
By Decree of The Divine...
The finger of the furor
extends, pointing
as the metatron-message
is relayed in the motions
of the magnificent mechanics
of causality and condition
The message is simple
"You are All on your own."
There is no we
There never was
There are no true connections
There is only what is
being divided into
what was
and what's left to be
The finger points at each
individual
from the same omnipotent,
omnidirectional origin
that is both to and from
within
By Decree of The Divine
the rules without exception
Cause and Effect
are no holy mystery
but the natural order
of the totality of
individuation
By Decree of The Divine
Each one chooses
Each alone
Each on their own
the solitary multitudes
in concert or confinement
by the same separateness
are judged accordingly
By Decree of The Divine
Each that triumphs
Each that fails
does so alone
Those that fail are of two faults
One of their own creation
The other of their own acceptance
of another's machinations
both of these beholden to their own
By Decree of The Divine
It is all your own failure
It is all your own triumph
It is all up to you
to achieve, to share, to lose...
By Decree of The Divine
Each one commanded
by the words unspoken
but unyielding as they resonate within
Words not as syllables or defined things
but as the essence of meaning
precepts of perspective and purpose
that if words could speak
would attempt to convey
in something diminished
by proxy and prophesy
to profess...
Figure it out. It is up to you. Define your self. Design your life. Live your life in this world with all the others that must live in it alone with you as well. You are on your own. You all are. Cause and effect are no mystery. They are by Decree of The Divine. The Divine is the master of all solitude. Divinity is imperative...
extends, pointing
as the metatron-message
is relayed in the motions
of the magnificent mechanics
of causality and condition
The message is simple
"You are All on your own."
There is no we
There never was
There are no true connections
There is only what is
being divided into
what was
and what's left to be
The finger points at each
individual
from the same omnipotent,
omnidirectional origin
that is both to and from
within
By Decree of The Divine
the rules without exception
Cause and Effect
are no holy mystery
but the natural order
of the totality of
individuation
By Decree of The Divine
Each one chooses
Each alone
Each on their own
the solitary multitudes
in concert or confinement
by the same separateness
are judged accordingly
By Decree of The Divine
Each that triumphs
Each that fails
does so alone
Those that fail are of two faults
One of their own creation
The other of their own acceptance
of another's machinations
both of these beholden to their own
By Decree of The Divine
It is all your own failure
It is all your own triumph
It is all up to you
to achieve, to share, to lose...
By Decree of The Divine
Each one commanded
by the words unspoken
but unyielding as they resonate within
Words not as syllables or defined things
but as the essence of meaning
precepts of perspective and purpose
that if words could speak
would attempt to convey
in something diminished
by proxy and prophesy
to profess...
Figure it out. It is up to you. Define your self. Design your life. Live your life in this world with all the others that must live in it alone with you as well. You are on your own. You all are. Cause and effect are no mystery. They are by Decree of The Divine. The Divine is the master of all solitude. Divinity is imperative...
Thursday, January 22, 2015
No-Call/No-Show...
The clock's hands move to strike the hour
-but no sound is struck
A phone remains silent
in catatonic concert
with the unheard movements
of this tepid tune
as time continues to elapse
Nothing is heard
The screen shows no image
-but the stagnant scene of oblivion
A motion sensor detects stillness
as everything ceases to do anything more
than merely continue to transpire
Nothing is seen
No call
No show
The night goes on in blind silence
into overtime unmarked
as the absence is passed over
but continues in absentia
It is too late
for anything else now
that which cannot be replaced
will not be
whatever else might
perhaps will
but in this post-prensent tense
there is nothing
No call
No show
If this were my call
to make or to have missed
would I be able to care,
to notice, or remiss
Time transpires with
incessant impotence
as all that remains
present or vacant
becomes the perpetual
No call
No show
-but no sound is struck
A phone remains silent
in catatonic concert
with the unheard movements
of this tepid tune
as time continues to elapse
Nothing is heard
The screen shows no image
-but the stagnant scene of oblivion
A motion sensor detects stillness
as everything ceases to do anything more
than merely continue to transpire
Nothing is seen
No call
No show
The night goes on in blind silence
into overtime unmarked
as the absence is passed over
but continues in absentia
It is too late
for anything else now
that which cannot be replaced
will not be
whatever else might
perhaps will
but in this post-prensent tense
there is nothing
No call
No show
If this were my call
to make or to have missed
would I be able to care,
to notice, or remiss
Time transpires with
incessant impotence
as all that remains
present or vacant
becomes the perpetual
No call
No show
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
Imagining Conversations...
I'm imagining conversations
simulating narratives
to simulate something real
Inventing words like despairatives
to convey what I feel
but what remains unreal
I'm imagining conversations
based on some impressions
of entities believed but unknown
that make illuminating professions
of what's reaped and what's sown
Imagining this all in the silence of my own
I'm imagining conversations
with my imagining me
an abstraction of self
as I imagine it to be
not really my self
but what I imagine me to see
if my eyes were cut-loose and set free
I'm imagining conversations
that my imaginings might have
imagining them speaking
words as a soothing salve
as they find what I'm seeking
adjoining disjointed halves
I'm imagining conversations
that I imagine might be had
by those that read these words
and think them good, or bad
Imagining them in imagined words
declaring reactions being amused or sad
I'm imagining conversations
as I imagine all that's not
imagining the unreal
as I imagine all I've got
imagining it as a deal
that's doomed to become shot
or something some would steal
or as things I've just forgot
simulating narratives
to simulate something real
Inventing words like despairatives
to convey what I feel
but what remains unreal
I'm imagining conversations
based on some impressions
of entities believed but unknown
that make illuminating professions
of what's reaped and what's sown
Imagining this all in the silence of my own
I'm imagining conversations
with my imagining me
an abstraction of self
as I imagine it to be
not really my self
but what I imagine me to see
if my eyes were cut-loose and set free
I'm imagining conversations
that my imaginings might have
imagining them speaking
words as a soothing salve
as they find what I'm seeking
adjoining disjointed halves
I'm imagining conversations
that I imagine might be had
by those that read these words
and think them good, or bad
Imagining them in imagined words
declaring reactions being amused or sad
I'm imagining conversations
as I imagine all that's not
imagining the unreal
as I imagine all I've got
imagining it as a deal
that's doomed to become shot
or something some would steal
or as things I've just forgot
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Something (not a love song)...
I wrote a love song
but this isn't it
I wrote one for you
that you probably won't get
As I wrote what I meant
to a dissatisfying extent
It sits in a stack
of pages in piles
In there somewhere
with masked frowns & dark smiles
caged in some code
of slight-of-hand styles
All I had was a name
and a thumbful of tunes
to dream of this song
that each word just imputes
I think that it's there
between the lines of this heap
the meaning, not words
I'd intended to keep
I wish I could find it
and show it to you
I wish you could read it
read the words and see through
Through the masks & the tricks
of elaborate disguise
I wish I could see its
affect in your eyes
I'm sure that I've got it
or I hope that I do
Even if it's forever
I'll never have you
So until I can find
all the words of this song
I'll just try to write this
as if it belongs
for I haven't much else
though I've plenty that longs
I hope this is hopeful
not hazard that wrongs
For this is not love
nor much of a tune
just a form of amusement
for some stark-raving lune
If you've read this
I'm sorry
It's probably not for you
but if it is
then I'm mortified
and know not what to do
So goodbye now, I'm sorry,
and must bid you adieu
until later or never
this one's for you
but this isn't it
I wrote one for you
that you probably won't get
As I wrote what I meant
to a dissatisfying extent
It sits in a stack
of pages in piles
In there somewhere
with masked frowns & dark smiles
caged in some code
of slight-of-hand styles
All I had was a name
and a thumbful of tunes
to dream of this song
that each word just imputes
I think that it's there
between the lines of this heap
the meaning, not words
I'd intended to keep
I wish I could find it
and show it to you
I wish you could read it
read the words and see through
Through the masks & the tricks
of elaborate disguise
I wish I could see its
affect in your eyes
I'm sure that I've got it
or I hope that I do
Even if it's forever
I'll never have you
So until I can find
all the words of this song
I'll just try to write this
as if it belongs
for I haven't much else
though I've plenty that longs
I hope this is hopeful
not hazard that wrongs
For this is not love
nor much of a tune
just a form of amusement
for some stark-raving lune
If you've read this
I'm sorry
It's probably not for you
but if it is
then I'm mortified
and know not what to do
So goodbye now, I'm sorry,
and must bid you adieu
until later or never
this one's for you
Sunday, January 11, 2015
From a Tomb of Paper...
It comes back to life
or as something there is no better word for
not living, not dying
but bleeding from pages
eternally unending
though having been interred
for some time
From a tomb of paper
the words find me
like ghosts sent to haunt me
spirits confined to taunt me
Words of the deceased
on pages like epitaphs
marking the remnants
of life lost,
ideas covered over,
and committals since committed
Juxtaposed and imposed upon me
possessing me,
or becoming possessed by me
From a tomb of paper
I find vitality
more vitality there
than in the animated automatons
this zeitgeist united
Less frightful
but more ominous
Less active
but more aeffecting
Living words
of dead or dying days
of lost or stolen ways
Dreams or nightmares
that refuse to
rest in peace
From a tomb of paper
Life cries out
Death is decried
I feel I must reply
or at least attempt to try
These words will be the death of me
these words that live despite me
or in spite of me
words to fill pages
making this tomb seem less empty
this story seem more full
this living seem under control
From these tombs of paper
I find life, and I find death
I find the life inside the breath
The words that form meaning
these dreams preserved though fleeting
From these tombs of paper
remembrance lasts too long
delaying the unsung song
or as something there is no better word for
not living, not dying
but bleeding from pages
eternally unending
though having been interred
for some time
From a tomb of paper
the words find me
like ghosts sent to haunt me
spirits confined to taunt me
Words of the deceased
on pages like epitaphs
marking the remnants
of life lost,
ideas covered over,
and committals since committed
Juxtaposed and imposed upon me
possessing me,
or becoming possessed by me
From a tomb of paper
I find vitality
more vitality there
than in the animated automatons
this zeitgeist united
Less frightful
but more ominous
Less active
but more aeffecting
Living words
of dead or dying days
of lost or stolen ways
Dreams or nightmares
that refuse to
rest in peace
From a tomb of paper
Life cries out
Death is decried
I feel I must reply
or at least attempt to try
These words will be the death of me
these words that live despite me
or in spite of me
words to fill pages
making this tomb seem less empty
this story seem more full
this living seem under control
From these tombs of paper
I find life, and I find death
I find the life inside the breath
The words that form meaning
these dreams preserved though fleeting
From these tombs of paper
remembrance lasts too long
delaying the unsung song
Breaths Taken...
A cough takes more breath
than lungs can fill
empties me out
and empties me still
as I'm forced into gasping and grasping
to hold my breath and my balance
another cough follows
then another, another, another...
until both my balance and breath
are evicted
though I continue desperately
gasping and grasping
but my lungs and legs keep collapsing
the air is forced
out and away
as it's stolen along with my words
(the words I can't say)
and their very meanings
that I can't attempt to convey
my thoughts, my life taken
in increments of all these lost breaths
granting victories to deaths
it's a common convulsion
it's a natural erosion
for life is in dying
and then in decay
this life in each breath
that's taken away
taken by forces
of wonder
or time
unable to take them back
and too seldom being taken aback
as these breaths are so ever taken
even if taken away
by coughs or by wonder
in each one
it's the same
with our breaths
we are taken
taken
away
than lungs can fill
empties me out
and empties me still
as I'm forced into gasping and grasping
to hold my breath and my balance
another cough follows
then another, another, another...
until both my balance and breath
are evicted
though I continue desperately
gasping and grasping
but my lungs and legs keep collapsing
the air is forced
out and away
as it's stolen along with my words
(the words I can't say)
and their very meanings
that I can't attempt to convey
my thoughts, my life taken
in increments of all these lost breaths
granting victories to deaths
it's a common convulsion
it's a natural erosion
for life is in dying
and then in decay
this life in each breath
that's taken away
taken by forces
of wonder
or time
unable to take them back
and too seldom being taken aback
as these breaths are so ever taken
even if taken away
by coughs or by wonder
in each one
it's the same
with our breaths
we are taken
taken
away
Waiting...
Waiting like an Eskimo
waiting for the solstice sun's return
Waiting like the ancient damned
waiting for Hell's fire to cease to burn
Waiting, Waiting, Waiting...
Waiting for
a life's calling
a star to wish upon falling
Waiting for
something to come
for kingdom come
for everything
and then some
Waiting, Waiting, Waiting...
Waiting for The One
to walk past
to turn back
to smile
and bring love at last
Waiting on
the next week's pay
the coming day
the simplest set of words to say
Waiting on
an answer
yes, or no,
or just maybe
or waiting for another request
to continue waiting
(please, please, please)
Waiting, Waiting, Waiting...
Waiting to get
off shift
out of jail
into retirement
or on to Hell
Waiting in
anger,
agony,
annoyance,
apathy
Waiting... Waiting... Waiting...
Waiting in
a room
a cell
a death-bed
a tomb
Waiting on
a lawyer's advice
a warden's keys
a doctor's prognosis
a cure for this disease
an afterlife awaiting
with prayers supplicating
"Please, Please, Please?"
Waiting... Waiting... Waiting...
Waiting to feel
better
free
alive
real
Waiting too
patiently
too obediently
for much to long
and it's just so wrong, so wrong, so wrong...
Waiting to remember
what's forgotten
where things went wrong
or right
what happened last December
was it like this cold awaiting night
waiting to remember what this waiting is for
Waiting... Waiting... Waiting...
More, More, More
then never-
more
Waiting all the while
all this time
unable to truly smile
Waiting to be waiting again
anticipating it
adjudicating it
Waiting in the fear
of waiting
Waiting for some reason
to stop waiting
Waiting for an end
to all of this
Waiting... Waiting... Waiting...
Waiting even after this end
to wait and wait again
Waiting after
Waiting... Waiting...
Waiting...
waiting for the solstice sun's return
Waiting like the ancient damned
waiting for Hell's fire to cease to burn
Waiting, Waiting, Waiting...
Waiting for
a life's calling
a star to wish upon falling
Waiting for
something to come
for kingdom come
for everything
and then some
Waiting, Waiting, Waiting...
Waiting for The One
to walk past
to turn back
to smile
and bring love at last
Waiting on
the next week's pay
the coming day
the simplest set of words to say
Waiting on
an answer
yes, or no,
or just maybe
or waiting for another request
to continue waiting
(please, please, please)
Waiting, Waiting, Waiting...
Waiting to get
off shift
out of jail
into retirement
or on to Hell
Waiting in
anger,
agony,
annoyance,
apathy
Waiting... Waiting... Waiting...
Waiting in
a room
a cell
a death-bed
a tomb
Waiting on
a lawyer's advice
a warden's keys
a doctor's prognosis
a cure for this disease
an afterlife awaiting
with prayers supplicating
"Please, Please, Please?"
Waiting... Waiting... Waiting...
Waiting to feel
better
free
alive
real
Waiting too
patiently
too obediently
for much to long
and it's just so wrong, so wrong, so wrong...
Waiting to remember
what's forgotten
where things went wrong
or right
what happened last December
was it like this cold awaiting night
waiting to remember what this waiting is for
Waiting... Waiting... Waiting...
More, More, More
then never-
more
Waiting all the while
all this time
unable to truly smile
Waiting to be waiting again
anticipating it
adjudicating it
Waiting in the fear
of waiting
Waiting for some reason
to stop waiting
Waiting for an end
to all of this
Waiting... Waiting... Waiting...
Waiting even after this end
to wait and wait again
Waiting after
Waiting... Waiting...
Waiting...
Friday, January 9, 2015
The Supplicant...
In beggars tones
Intoned
In servile supplication
suspended
In drudgery and decay
decried
The supplicant sings
for salvation
for sustenance
for something
for anything
for everything
Singing, screeching
Slaying sound
with semblances
of suffering
not true sorrows
but petty demands
without efforts
aside from these sirens'
sonic shrieks
The supplicant
sings its sloth
demanding the substance
others efforts earn
that it will not endure
in doing
but indeed demand
till doom
The supplicant's
shrill soliciting sighs
serving no masters
supplying no subjects
slicing through the air
like knives at envied throats
stabbing at ears
left open
like the unlocked doors
of fools' untended fortunes
The supplicant
sits slovenly
shooting stern scowls
and howling hellish vowels
that beg to bludgeon
non-believers
and dismember
all dissenters
that dare to deny
the supplicants
submissions
of petitions to
their pitiful, petty plights
The supplicant
Supplemental
to nothing
Superfluous
to everything
Synonymous
to pseudo-suffering
Revolting
in their revelry
of wretched
rotten drudgery
Debauching
Demeaning
all of things
A squalid stupid
squandering
of earth's entrusted
everything
The supplicant
subsists
like a parasitic syst
that by reason
ought not exist
but be gone
and never missed
the supplicant
endures
invades
and is never cured
the supplicant
prevails
and for this
nothing avails
so ignore the ignorant wails
of the frail that never fails
and leave the supplicant
to the infinity they lament
As they suffer every cent
and every sentiment
ignore the supplicant
Intoned
In servile supplication
suspended
In drudgery and decay
decried
The supplicant sings
for salvation
for sustenance
for something
for anything
for everything
Singing, screeching
Slaying sound
with semblances
of suffering
not true sorrows
but petty demands
without efforts
aside from these sirens'
sonic shrieks
The supplicant
sings its sloth
demanding the substance
others efforts earn
that it will not endure
in doing
but indeed demand
till doom
The supplicant's
shrill soliciting sighs
serving no masters
supplying no subjects
slicing through the air
like knives at envied throats
stabbing at ears
left open
like the unlocked doors
of fools' untended fortunes
The supplicant
sits slovenly
shooting stern scowls
and howling hellish vowels
that beg to bludgeon
non-believers
and dismember
all dissenters
that dare to deny
the supplicants
submissions
of petitions to
their pitiful, petty plights
The supplicant
Supplemental
to nothing
Superfluous
to everything
Synonymous
to pseudo-suffering
Revolting
in their revelry
of wretched
rotten drudgery
Debauching
Demeaning
all of things
A squalid stupid
squandering
of earth's entrusted
everything
The supplicant
subsists
like a parasitic syst
that by reason
ought not exist
but be gone
and never missed
the supplicant
endures
invades
and is never cured
the supplicant
prevails
and for this
nothing avails
so ignore the ignorant wails
of the frail that never fails
and leave the supplicant
to the infinity they lament
As they suffer every cent
and every sentiment
ignore the supplicant
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Run, Run, Run...
Run,
run,
run-
away
Hurry through another day
Fleeing from so much dismay
A frantic, feverish, furious way
Run so fast, and run so far
Wish upon each falling star
to bring our stride to what we are
Give meaning to this gnarly scar
Moving till we tire-out
Wondering what each stride's about
All these miles tread through doubt
Save our breath, and don't scream-out
Run,
run,
run-
away
Hurry through another day
Fleeing from so much dismay
A frantic, feverish, furious way
Why, oh why,
Why must we strive
What must be done just to survive
Is there more to feeling alive
or only what we might contrive
as we...
Run, run, run
away
Run as it's the only
way
to make it through each one more
day
into each next one
(not to stay)
Just run,
run,
run
(ok?)
Cross these miles
fast and far
leave behind an
earthly scar
this rush to be
just what we are
as we...
Run,
run,
run-
away
Hurry through another day
Fleeing from so much dismay
A frantic, feverish, furious way
Running towards
what we run from
running through it
oblivious, dumb
running till feet & minds
go numb
sucking on
opposing thumb
hitching, hiking
not to-
but from
as we...
Run, run, run
away
Run as if it's the only
way
to make it through each one more
day
into each next one
(not to stay)
Just run,
run,
run
(ok)
run,
run-
away
Hurry through another day
Fleeing from so much dismay
A frantic, feverish, furious way
Run so fast, and run so far
Wish upon each falling star
to bring our stride to what we are
Give meaning to this gnarly scar
Moving till we tire-out
Wondering what each stride's about
All these miles tread through doubt
Save our breath, and don't scream-out
Run,
run,
run-
away
Hurry through another day
Fleeing from so much dismay
A frantic, feverish, furious way
Why, oh why,
Why must we strive
What must be done just to survive
Is there more to feeling alive
or only what we might contrive
as we...
Run, run, run
away
Run as it's the only
way
to make it through each one more
day
into each next one
(not to stay)
Just run,
run,
run
(ok?)
Cross these miles
fast and far
leave behind an
earthly scar
this rush to be
just what we are
as we...
Run,
run,
run-
away
Hurry through another day
Fleeing from so much dismay
A frantic, feverish, furious way
Running towards
what we run from
running through it
oblivious, dumb
running till feet & minds
go numb
sucking on
opposing thumb
hitching, hiking
not to-
but from
as we...
Run, run, run
away
Run as if it's the only
way
to make it through each one more
day
into each next one
(not to stay)
Just run,
run,
run
(ok)
Monday, January 5, 2015
Life's Work...
I pointed out a pile
of assorted notebooks
and declared it was
my life's work
She went though them
Some she liked
Others...
not so much
Then she found
the blank ones
"What gives?"
She asked.
"I thought you said
this was your life's work."
I laughed.
"Well, I didn't say I was finished."
She laughed.
"You'd better get on with it then.
There's a lot of empty ones here."
I laughed louder.
"I'm not in any rush to fill those pages.
They'll see me emptied-out soon enough.
Besides, I said it was my life's work.
I'm not even sure it still is.
Those pages might be better off
without my words filling them up."
She laughed loudest.
"What's fulfilling though?"
She asked.
I didn't have a good answer,
so I just laughed too,
but not as loud.
We both laughed like this
for some time.
I don't know when it was
that we stopped laughing,
and it hardly matters
who laughed last,
but now I hope
that wasn't the
last laugh
over my
life's
work
(ha-
ha)
...
of assorted notebooks
and declared it was
my life's work
She went though them
Some she liked
Others...
not so much
Then she found
the blank ones
"What gives?"
She asked.
"I thought you said
this was your life's work."
I laughed.
"Well, I didn't say I was finished."
She laughed.
"You'd better get on with it then.
There's a lot of empty ones here."
I laughed louder.
"I'm not in any rush to fill those pages.
They'll see me emptied-out soon enough.
Besides, I said it was my life's work.
I'm not even sure it still is.
Those pages might be better off
without my words filling them up."
She laughed loudest.
"What's fulfilling though?"
She asked.
I didn't have a good answer,
so I just laughed too,
but not as loud.
We both laughed like this
for some time.
I don't know when it was
that we stopped laughing,
and it hardly matters
who laughed last,
but now I hope
that wasn't the
last laugh
over my
life's
work
(ha-
ha)
...
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Solitary Fears...
I fear sometimes
that my heart
may not quite be my own
and I'm bound to something other
than content to be alone
This fear is of collusion
a watered down confusion
Where what I am
is just a scam
and my myth of self
is pure delusion
I've learned so well
to live and even die
it seems
in this world
where I'm alone
Having learned to be
learned to see
with these eyes
I call my own
I've learned so well
I've learned to tell
what is my own
that this life's alone
but still I fear a spell
I fear sometimes
my own conception
is built upon some misconception
maligning me to pure deception
and alienating me from my own
contented affection
I fear sometimes
I'm not this very me
that I've come so very
far to see
and I fear what else
there just might be
or may well be seen
to one day be/become
of me
I fear sometimes
this life I own
is not quite mine
not mine alone
I fear it might have been
diluted
Rendering me
so convoluted
I live with this fear
not in it
for dilution
of self
in fear
is no solution
and I ascent to have more constitution
aligned with my own resolution
not to dissolve in solitary fears
but to be worthy of
some silent cheers
however frightfully
far or near
as long as
they are
so earned
and sincere
for that is what
one considers
dear
that my heart
may not quite be my own
and I'm bound to something other
than content to be alone
This fear is of collusion
a watered down confusion
Where what I am
is just a scam
and my myth of self
is pure delusion
I've learned so well
to live and even die
it seems
in this world
where I'm alone
Having learned to be
learned to see
with these eyes
I call my own
I've learned so well
I've learned to tell
what is my own
that this life's alone
but still I fear a spell
I fear sometimes
my own conception
is built upon some misconception
maligning me to pure deception
and alienating me from my own
contented affection
I fear sometimes
I'm not this very me
that I've come so very
far to see
and I fear what else
there just might be
or may well be seen
to one day be/become
of me
I fear sometimes
this life I own
is not quite mine
not mine alone
I fear it might have been
diluted
Rendering me
so convoluted
I live with this fear
not in it
for dilution
of self
in fear
is no solution
and I ascent to have more constitution
aligned with my own resolution
not to dissolve in solitary fears
but to be worthy of
some silent cheers
however frightfully
far or near
as long as
they are
so earned
and sincere
for that is what
one considers
dear
Poetry In A Song...
In the midst of
such voice
I dare not speak
I dare not move
As such voice sings poetic
verse
chorus
bridge
and beyond
Silent, Still
Listening
Truly listening
I am able to hear
the Sound of
Poetry In a Song
As so many others
speak
laugh
and simply carry-on
I continue listening
for to me
such sounds are gone
To me
this Song is as concentrated
as my own fixed concentration
The music prevails
and much is availed
as the Sound of this
Poetry In A Song
triumphs over
oblivious cacophonous chatter
that is both present here
and far gone
In the poetry of this song
there is more than
voice
words
meaning
and even truth
This Poetry In A Song
is full of a life
where I find vitality
enough to truly live
as life goes on
It is a wondrous thing
this Poetry
this Song
this life, this silence,
this singing
I wonder how many others
Might truly hear it
or if they are listening to
some other distant song
such voice
I dare not speak
I dare not move
As such voice sings poetic
verse
chorus
bridge
and beyond
Silent, Still
Listening
Truly listening
I am able to hear
the Sound of
Poetry In a Song
As so many others
speak
laugh
and simply carry-on
I continue listening
for to me
such sounds are gone
To me
this Song is as concentrated
as my own fixed concentration
The music prevails
and much is availed
as the Sound of this
Poetry In A Song
triumphs over
oblivious cacophonous chatter
that is both present here
and far gone
In the poetry of this song
there is more than
voice
words
meaning
and even truth
This Poetry In A Song
is full of a life
where I find vitality
enough to truly live
as life goes on
It is a wondrous thing
this Poetry
this Song
this life, this silence,
this singing
I wonder how many others
Might truly hear it
or if they are listening to
some other distant song
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