Tag Archives: surviving

Slippery

by

2

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.

by

4

Time waits

while I run

This ferocity of action

charged by expectations

only a madman can measure

This treasure – gifted curse

of accommodation

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