They ask how to escape.
But never why they are in the trap.
They ask how to win.
But never whether the game is worth playing.
The wrong question attracts the wrong answers.
And the longer you stay with the wrong question,
the more the wrong answers start to look like wisdom.
The vultures circle.
They do not need to attack.
They only need to wait.
Storms rage
Shifting pieces
Of reality.
Where anger ends
Humility begins.
In a rush they shove us into containers,
And some of us rattle in the containers,
Anything they have that will hold us,
Desperate,
They like or hate what fits,
They hate or disregard what doesn’t.
If there is space around us in that shape,
They say it is our fault for not filling.
We are… deficient. Wanting.
Their expectation magically
Becomes our… abnormality.
Some fill the hollow and pass on the containers
Some do not and pretend, and pass on the containers.
insistent, and
break them.
In every sentence I find a judge
A jury
An executioner
A basket at the end
of
each
period.
Meanings
flayed
dismayed
lenses, light, bend
and suffer
a flurry
In every sentence I find a judge.
We see each other
Living our own lives,
Our own orbits all we know
Our rotations all we know
And yet all we know of others
Is the side we see
As they go through their own orbits,
Twist on their axes
And judge us the same way.
…..
….
…
..
.
Judged by the darkest night or the brightest day
Neither is true between tomorrow
And yesterday.
Wrapped in the
sharpened quills of our insecurities
We twist through life
Wishing only not to bleed.
And if we dare bare ourselves,
Dare drop our quills
We twist through life
Wishing only not to bleed.
We all bleed-
The most honest thing we do
And we grow quills to
Cover our scars.
Coffee bean,
Your tortured soul
Roasted
Ground,
Your remains
Soaked in boiling water.
This is the price of my love.
We are all
Doing things we do not like,
Holding ourselves from those around us,
Living within the bounds we have chosen,
Chasing things we do not need.
We are all
Castaways from our own lives,
Derelicts from those around us,
Captives within the prisons of our own choosing,
Wandering hungry ghosts within those prisons.
We are all
Choosing how we are castaways,
Who we are separate from and by how much,
Architects of our own views,
Engineers of our own hunger…
And we all
Make our own keys and
Steer our destinies.
They slam into the revolving door
Forcing themselves, the door stalls
As they push in separate directions.
Paralysis.
A side wins, the door spins
Letting them through, the door spins
As clumps of them get into the hall.
Blockage.
Slowly, one by one they
Trickle through, these
Thoughts.
There are some that burn neatly
In ordered rows, in
Symmetry, order…
Controlled by fuel,
They linger for a time and
Fade away.
And then there are those that burn
Pushing beyond boundaries,
Burning bright…
Their fuel within
They rage
Until they are no more.
I knew an inferno that tried to be a candle.