Split

I live a double life
that no one would believe
existing on a knife
which logic says must cleave
the wispy thread of sanity
that tethers my humanity—

it’s difficult for one
to bear the weight of two
and no, it isn’t fun
but still I try to do
my best despite delirium
to foster equilibrium.

Scrap

As summer starts to swiftly leave
beyond all hope of spring’s reprieve
an autumn shudder lends a hint
of winter’s unforgiving stint—

auspicious omens can’t predict
what deviation will be picked
to flourish for another blink
while former failures face the brink.

The epochs come then glumly go,
stagnation tends to settle slow,
the seasons change, but just in name
the struggle always stays the same.

Zoning

The spiral down is quicker
with a shot or two of liquor
and things won’t seem so rough
once you’ve had a little puff—

don’t wallow in confusion
just accept the big illusion
and if you’ve had your fill
take another happy pill.

Perpendicular

I’ve wallowed in filth the pretentious can’t bear
and swallowed the shit no elitist would dare
I’m one with the creature that crouches within
who’s done what he must, though they label it sin.

I’ve curbed my ambition – for what is the use?
Disturbed by the angle of those more obtuse
I’ll lurk in the corner where everything’s right
a smirk on my face more bemusement than spite.

Continuum?

I really hate
to calculate
the distance that’s between us
there seems to be
a galaxy
dividing Mars and Venus
and no degree
of astronomy
will cancel out compunction
so two stray spheres
can cross light years
and once more form conjunction.

Clearing

The only bond I seek
is with the world I tread
a haven for the weak
that huddle up in dread
when those in ‘power’ speak—

I’d rather run instead
through fields beside a creek
where no one else has fled
or voiced their mindless shriek
to soothe my aching head

and maybe try to eke
a living less misled
beneath a soaring peak
existing on the bread
that’s poison to the meek.

Seasons

The thyme has withered away
the leaves are limp and gray
there is no hint of fragrant spice
embellishing today

nor zest enough to entice
acceptance of the price
required to enjoy a taste
of fabled paradise,

instead we’re gluttons for haste
our dreams can be replaced
just stack them there, out of the way
with all the other waste.

It’s saddening to say
but silence won’t delay
the barrenness of every plot
when time has withered away.

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.

Demanding

To maximize your medium
at times can just be tedium
but oh, the exultation
when they crave your creation.

Conclusion

There are ways to do things
and there are ways to get things done
you don’t need matching shoestrings
to get the distance run
or silver void of tarnish
to take a hearty bite
nor selfishness to garnish
your portion of delight—
though you must release the moorings
to get the trip begun
there are ways to do things
and there are ways to get things done.