Master

God’s Flesh,

A last breath,

An unexpected adoration;

All earned over countless millennia.

And here you are,

Mine to trust and behold.

But you don’t lead.

You won’t even speak,

Your touch is cold and weak.

I can feel December in your veins,

A haze in your hazel eyes.

How did you get here?

I didn’t even know I missed you,

But you knew better.

Thank you for showing me

That I’m a slave to this life.

If I were anything else

I’d be power hungry,

Irresponsible,

Apathetic.

By accepting the chains of my existence

I become the master of my reality.

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Action

To wish for action, these days,

Isn’t a sentiment in short supply.

We dream and mourn. All the ways

Others seem to drift idly by

While the world slowly burns. It’s

Infuriating to say the least.

Just a Story

“A Muse or a Mother,

A Whore or a Lover,

The bride that died

Mid morning in March.”

The advantage of vantage.

The second person story.

A friend of a friend

Of yours.

With Mind wondering, mind wandering,

Falling through gaps,

Looking for impossible relations

to possible personas.

You wait and you wade

through an ocean of notions

Until your mind and body rest

On a metaphorical shore.

But this story

is a story

And nothing more.

Wanting

I need you to want me.

Not as a Lover and not as my friend,

But as a reader, a student, a lost soul.

I need you, and that should be enough,

But it’s not.

A non-existent audience can be fickle,

Like your wants,

Like your needs.

You can want me,

But devotion is a murky water,

And your depth is always on trial.

I hope you break,

I entrust your life to ashes,

And one day I’ll find you,

I’ll find you wanting.

Thoughts #2

I was between sleeping and waking the other day, I had a serious debate as to whether I had killed someone. Or at least disposed of a body. I couldn’t remember killing anyone, but disposing of a corpse logically follows that, and that I could remember.  The anxiety of someone discovering the secret was overwhelming. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt more paranoid… And it wasn’t even real.

Do I not take life as seriously as I should? Is there a graded scale for such a thing? I feel as though everything’s easier with graphs and scales and equations.  Even if I don’t fully understand them, just seeing things represented thusly makes them feel simpler, more manageable, more knowable.

I hate pulling the nihilist card, but there’s so much I don’t know and so much I can’t know that it does seem overwhelming pointless to try and discover or try things.  But then I always grow tired of the monotony that accompanies not exploring my life and this world. And so I try new things for a bit, until I’m overwhelmed.

Maybe it’s my lack of focus. Which isn’t so much jumping from one thing to the next, it’s a constant step backwards to look at the whole of my existence and wondering what sort of person is this making me? What sort of person does this?  It’s the neutral answers that give me grief. “People do this, most people in fact, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to…” The things that aren’t inherently wanted or unwanted by the person I’ve become.

Sleep.

Thoughts #1

I feel as though I’ve always thought too much. My mind races when it’s unoccupied with tasks, either significant or menial, and there are things I contemplate that may seem to be odd fixations, or plausible fears, but in an attempt to share some of myself, these are the thoughts and questions that cross my unburdened mind today…

Statements that are unprovable, yet plausible:

There are exactly 5 colors that no one can see.

Plants have frequencies of communication that we can’t hear. Every time I mow my lawn there is silent screaming. Every flower I pick gives a last gasp before dying.

I die every time I fall asleep and a new version of myself is born whenever I wake up.

Everyone else sees the world in a different manner than I do.

Everyone else doesn’t exist.

That this life is Heaven and I don’t appreciate it enough.

That this life is Hell and I don’t appreciate it enough.

That I can’t feel the full spectrum of emotions.

That I’ve missed what could have been the happiest moment of my life.

That I won’t matter after I die.

That I don’t matter before I die.

 

 

 

I’ve been twitching lately,

My muscles acting of their own will.

First in my temple,

Then in my fingers,

Lastly, mid-back.

I told my doctor of the first.

“Would you like to do anything about it?”

No, no. I’ll see if it goes away.

I sat and stared at the second,

Feeling a helplessness and anxiety,

But ever confident in hope.

The third is crippling,

And my thumb still twitches in time with my heartbeat.

I am still but a moment

And hope always returns

Only to fall on glimmering rocks

Of reality and to abide a rhythmic aberration.

 

 

 

I hope to share more of myself this way. Hence the #1 in the title. Until then, unless my muse strikes a different chord.

 

 

 

A Sojourn in December

We had our first snow today.
When I first saw it,
I halfheartedly smiled from my position,
Peaking from the curtain
Draped next to an occupied bed.

Giant white flakes cover the ground and sky,
And I don’t mind.  The light
They reflect and the way they dance
Gives troubled minds a sense of ease.

And as the frigid day wears on,
The falling ceases just as it started,
With me under warm blankets,
And they finally finding peace
After a long winter’s journey.