Interpretation

It means whatever you want it to mean
it says whatever you need it to say
there are no messages in between
the cognitive quandaries I try to convey,

so glean whatever you want to glean
and weigh whatever you need to weigh
my sentiments seldom conform to the mean
so take them however you may.

Stages

Tonight I’ll flirt with Destiny
and every circumstance
I know will get the best of me
if given half a chance,

but will it hold an audience
with dialogue that’s dry?
I’ve got to act with confidence,
we all have plots to ply.

There is no lasting happiness
just moments more serene
that counteract the craziness
before the final scene.

Proof

Some pleasures that I’ve sought to shun
enjoyed would see my world undone
for am I not my mother’s son—

aware the bottle’s less than half
but daily forcing out a laugh
insisting on a full carafe;

and though it caused her cruel demise
I’ll snuggle up with all my lies
until the fire takes my eyes

unless I can remain stiff willed
embracing passions unfulfilled,
a spirit stronger when distilled.

Impetus

Why is it that we make things—
to see ourselves somehow
or hear the thunder of applause
and take a nervous bow,

to curiously instigate
a novel way to see
how truly indefinable
we were meant to be,

or is it just an exercise
of freedom to express
the need to try and make some sense
from this chaotic mess?

Whatever is the catalyst
should never be denied,
we’ll never master harmony
if ranges aren’t applied.

Riveted

The stanchions still stand stoically
assailed by summer storms
they’ve hung in there heroically
a tribute to their forms

for steel can be as pliable
as anything that bleeds
and is, perhaps, more viable
with fewer vital needs

beyond a place to bivouac
beneath an open sky
so they can diligently track
their muses spinning by.

Wastrel

I’ve wasted many words but never said
a thing discerning minds would care to read
and now it seems the urge to share is dead;

it’s like a withered skin I had to shed
a ghostly husk of self-indulgent greed
that wasted many words but never said

one single statement suitable to spread
which prompts my inner critic to concede
that now the urge to share should just lay dead.

These empty thoughts that bounce inside my head
and ricochet with ever slowing speed
are wasted words that never will be said

for no one truly cares if someone’s bled
provided they were not the one to bleed—
so now you see, the urge to share is dead.

Can sustenance be something more than bread,
could symmetry fulfill this nagging need?
I’ve wasted many words but never said
and now it seems the urge to share is dead.