Twisting and turning, I’m
churning for a buttery existence, a
melting through the burn of resistance.
I want to flow, beginning to end, as
the flavor of life seasoned just right
for discriminating palates; the ones whose
mallets demand the taste of love in their presence.
Essential essence resonates with the kindred
and the lacking; the filled up and the cracking,
and here I am – sticky like glue.
Is it wrong to leave my residue, and then
slip away off the edge of a smile? It seems
I have a way with meanwhiles.
Moderation begs my leave… preservation –
my reprieve – yet, to my bosom clings
the thirsting heart for more.
Its score unsettled in my arms, with
less than requited charms, finds
adoration’s just a whisper behind the door.
Evermore, permeating measure, I wield this
captive treasure, finding peace just past
the reach of tangible.
Unimaginable only blinks ago, this truth
only my God could know hid in the belly
of self artifact. Therein, the part of origin
left intact beneath the rubble, the
broken bubble of this lifetime,
now wiggles its fingers through the crumble.
Prints brushing against the winds of time
with their endless story, caressed by glory,
where nothing else sticks.
Nurture is drawn to the outcry, but
nature remains slippery to a fault.
I am everything and nothing worth
holding on to.
while I run
This ferocity of action
charged by expectations
only a madman can measure
This treasure – gifted curse
Pockets too deep to
not pay the costs
Cashing out this well of
blood, sweat and tears that
I remit with a smile
The meanwhile, as meager as it is,
gives way to tender moments and
fits of fury, competing
to be my resting place;
mere seconds of redemption in an
ongoing whirlwind of others’
and self-imposed demands
Wants get met under the
delusion of necessity, the
compromise of humanity, the
sacrifice of sanity
But I’m still thinking…
Annoyed and intrigued,
wagers pour their pockets into
the kitty riding on my survival
I hear their whispers
I know their bets
I feel their air,
but won’t breathe it in
Those clouds are too high
and too low for my sustenance
Not for sport –
Existence is an art; drawn and
choreographed by circumstance;
painted and performed by me
I always have a choice