20

Inspiration runs short.
Why?
Simply because I want to tell the harsh truth.
No double meanings - no misleading.

Instead I write of big words with short meanings like
Racionation
(Is there even a word that can rhyme with that?)
Frustration at being unable to write the 'right' way.

Is there a 'right' way though?
Aren't we all just shadows passing in the night?
At a whim, our lives can be extinguished, still we're secretive
Even to ourselves.

We walk a lonely path, humans all.
So we seek solace in groups.
But what group can save you from your darkest thoughts?
Who can save you from the nagging doubts that whisper into your soul?

(Dark, I know)

Find your centre, and you control your life.
-Your destiny in your hands.

So what's the right way?
There is none. We all chart a path.
A path into the light that mutes the doubts.
A vision, a passion, an ethos.

Just shadows passing in the night
I pray we all find our light.

*You know the drill, Google the numerology meaning of the title.

Also, check my other blog. nonpoetryposts.blogspot.com

Step

Stable n. not likely to change or fail; firmly established

Compromise n. an agreement or settlement of a dispute that is reached by each side making concessions

Choice n. the right or ability to choose


Where to begin?
Tortured thoughts.
What's right? What's wrong? It's all relative.
What's wrong with me?

I think the cathedral's fallen - revealing me
The catheter in my chest making a pathetic attempt to clear the black bile
It rises tidally. Threatening to sweep away all that I hold dear.

Which way is ... Up?
Not looking for escape just light -
The fight's just begun.
Hacking my darker self to pieces.

Our swords glisten crimson 
Only an idiot tries to kill himself

A solution must be found.

On introspection, it's immediately obvious that retrospect is a wonderful thing
"If I'd only done this ..."
"If only I'd never said that"
"I wish I never had hurt you"
-But choice dictates 
Consequence

The first step to maturity is accepting the fallout of one's decisions.

Fall.
It rained that day, didn't it?
As the walls that were torn down went back up.
Then the masks came out.
Masks of ... Joviality and impartiality
How ... Impractical.
The truth could have saved it.

Introspection again.

What's done is done (tell my heart that)

So what next?
Acceptance.
Renewal.
Reversion an impossibility.

Remorse's come.

First and Last

"The ode lives upon the ideal, the epic upon the grandiose, the drama upon the real." - Victor Hugo

I could write an ode to you;

The you in the mirror ... The you out there everyday.

I could write exactly what you think of yourself.

The insecurities, the fallacies you weave.

The limitations you place on yourself.

... In an ode to humanity, we'd realize that all our ideals intertwine.

-Is that a sign of intelligent design?

I could wax lyrical about your beauty.

Your inner beauty ... That force of character that counterbalances your insecurities.

I could show the world all the pain you've faced.

But what purpose would that have served?

- Just a loud boy crying for attention.

It could be an epic.

The tales of what were, what are ... what could have been and what could be.

So many what ifs.

Almost like our existences are predicated on the uncertain.

 What is certainty really?

"And so it came to be that woman fell for man, and in falling, she brought him with her ... he was willing"
Willing to give it all up for
-Love ... The undefinable force that drives us all.
Giving it up for an ideal.
The idea that maybe this time it would work out.
(It didn't)
-Right people, wrong time.
Melliferous sounds of love turning to shrieks 
Then silence.


"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling." - Oscar Wilde

Love

Love.

How to love.

What is love, really?

Is the the "I love yous"

The endless talking on the phone;

"No, you hang up first"

Is it in the eyes?

His gaze off into the distance as he ponders

- "Is there a future for us?"

The look in her eyes - "They smile"

Is love in the endless fights?

Cause trust me, the fights are going to come.

-Peace treaties when they get a piece ... 

Is it in reconcilliation?

Is love in bearing pain for that special someone?

(I'm honestly asking, I have no clue)

Is love only love in the bedroom?

His sighs giving way to her moans ...

That twinning which we innately yearn for.

Is love purely physical?

"Will you still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful?"

Is love in the years together?

His balding head, her sagging breasts

- "I remember when I could count your wrinkles"

That mutual support, they help each other to climb the stairs.

So what is love, really?

Is it a lesson we all have to learn on her own?

-Life doesn't come with a manual.

Make of it what you will.

Parler

We speak.
But what do we really say?
Is it what's on our minds? Or is it the
Politically Correct
Watered-down
Censored
Less Profane
Dear-lord-don't-let-me-offend-anyone
Version?

They say free speech, but is it really free?

How could it be, we're trapped in a cruel system.
One of fear:
We are all in the quest of perfection.
So we keep quiet instead of speaking our minds.

Whoever put a premium on words?
- I mean real ones, with meaning.
"Meaningful words were never heard"

So will you let your tongue loose? (With reason)
Let's start a new season.
Let your voice be heard.
It's time for spoken word.

Remorse

Remorse, come.

No, not regret. Everything that's passed has happened for a reason.

Everyone that's come and gone, there's been a reason behind that too.

Growth.

Dear lord please stop us before we become like Icarus;

I mean, isn't in our nature to overreach?

Wait.

Wrong race. We're genetically programmed to seek comfort.

So we settle - for half-truths, for ... relationships that drain our substance.

Pathological short-changers ...

We seek in others what we're afraid of finding in ourselves.

Who are your idols?

Why do you settle?

Why don't I settle down?

Perennially unanswerable questions.

So remorse come.

For all the bad I've done.

All the bad I'm going to do.

Just a sinner, who's gonna sin again.

But I'll be damned if I don't help someone along the way.

Why do I consider myself among the helpless?

"I listened to your problems. Now listen to mine."

Remorse ... Come.

Looking for perspective.

On life, lies.

Honesty. (No whole truths here)

I mean ... You can't handle the truth. I mean, who can?

I mean... But I'm not. Generosity's the virtue I aim for.

Come ... Remorse.

But I can't.

I've already rationalized all my actions.

For-the-greater-good.

But what happens when the greater good isn't good enough?

Thoughts

We march along. To the beat of the same drum.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The pitter patter of different feet of different races pushing the same ideologies of;
Greed.
Lust.
Warfare.
Brother-against-brother.
Step by step.
Toy soldiers, hmmm?

We've been spoon-fed from inception. Not desire to create of our own.
So we gobble up their.
Food
Lies
Religion
Politics
No one questions - why?

So we're led.
By the
Hand
Leash
Contract
Dollar
But who's doing the leading?

Is it the
Politician?
Lawyer?
Doctor?
Mother?
Father?
Who controls what we discern as normal?
Who or what is normal?

Too safe in the reality that they've fabricated for us - we're afraid of what's outside the cocoon.
But shouldn't we be scared of what's inside?
Fear
Cowardice
Avarice
I mean, what is this?
What have you done with your choice?

We push away all the good things -
People who care
Love
Hold us in high esteem.
For those people who
Hate
Destroy
Malice.
We must be the only species who desire tumors.

Well I'm done.
Watch me march to the beat of my own drum -
Tap, tap,
Bang, bang, bang.

What will you do?

Just One Question

Who is a poet?
- Some would say "a poet is someone who makes you feel."
So is a lover a poet?
Is his kisses on her skin poetry?
The sweet nothings he whispers in her ear; the marks he leaves?
Is she a poet?
Giving her truth to him; letting him in - trying to get him to give?

Others would say
"A poet is someone who makes you think"
But does anyone really MAKE you think?
Your thoughts are all your own.
Or if they do make you think ... Can craftless men, with no vision. Only selfishness
-Men who destroy everything in their path ... Who make you THINK about your safety.
Can they be poets?

Could you say that
"A poet is someone who understands rhythm"
Can a dancer then be a poet?
Twisting
Embracing
Expressing themselves through music.
-Can musicians also be poets?

So who is a poet?
Aren't we all a little, writing our few words on the slate of our lives?
It's not all about craft -
What's important is what you're saying.
We're all poets.
So tell your tale.

Manna for Mama

What if.
What if we're all pheonices? Born out of the ashes of our parents.
We must admit that some of them do die when we're born.
Internally a little. May the souls of the mothers who gave their lives for their children
Rest
In
Peace
(Leave it to me to introduce the macabre into a Mothers' Day Poem)
-But the truth has to be told.
There are some who abandon their children - some who wish they were never born.
This ... Is not for them.

Here's to the strong. The women who've given it all for their children.
The women who go out everyday and make the world their bitch.
This - this is for you mama.
This is for those women who've had their security dragged from under them, repeatedly.
But guess what? The problems are gone ... Yet they remain.
To ... Wash, cook, clean. Help yuh with yuh homework then send yuh ass to bed.

Or maybe she had to leave for you to have it better in life.
This is for the mothers who've risked resentment to provide financially.
Mark my words - Your rewards will come.
(Might squeeze yuh a smalls every now and then - just keep it pan di down low)
- We'll never know what they go through to provide for us.

Single mothers who keep your head above the water -
We see you.
Stay fighting. Stay caring. Stay loving.
You weren't given a burden you couldn't bear.
Mothers ... Mothers all. We love you.
Well I do.

Muse

I've decided to try something new;
In the face of this sweltering summer heat,
I'm going to give her wings and let her fly.
She's always wanted to be free ... So consider this the breaking of shakles.

She tells tales.
Tattles even - making a mockery of my attempts of teetotalism
"Stop fooling yourself" she says ... You know your poison - now love it
-Love it the way you love me, with your deft touch and messy cursive.

She says things I wouldn't - She sees through me
The true me ... The one the public only glimpses when I'm doing something I'm passionate about.
-Passions only seen when I'm doing someone.
What does she do with this knowledge?

Nothing.
I think that's the slap to the face really.
My idiosyncratic nature means nothing to her. She's one woman who'll never give a damn about it.
She's seen it all.

So she presents herself as a vessel - to carry the voice of men.
I can't be jealous, she was here before me.
She'll be here after I leave.
So I'll be her muse - taking solace in the fact that I amuse her.

Maybe I pique her interest with the words I write.
Maybe it's my thoughts that get to her.
She could just be stringing me along, like a pathologically narcissistic bitch.
But eh? Worse things have happened.

Sneak Peek

I drink of the varied experiences of life ...
Then I write. I write because I am.
I am a man. I am a poet - of sorts... No Ars Poetica here
No cacophony of accolades here;
My fame is no fame.
Just a humble man.

I hunger.
For meaningful connections ... I live for the spark in other people's eyes.
They want happiness.
What do I want?
To be remembered, as a humble man.
-May I not lead you astray as I chart paths very few men will follow.

So I love.
After a fashion. Love fashion too.
Her high-heeled shoes getting her just up to under six foot.
She's perfection in motion. I love her.
Too bad she only exists in the confines of my mind.

Smoking my brains out through the burn of thoughts untold.
I play the fool, it's the easiest facade.
Dare you not tempt fate by looking past it.
No Janus here. Just a cracked representation the ethereal form.

So I run.
Ahead into the future. No considerations of the past, apart from the harsh lessons I've brought upon myself.
Who tempts fate and lives to tell the tale?
Who plays for keeps, with no consideration for compromise?
- Will it be me?