I have tried.
at times,
more purposefully
than others.
But
I have,
tried.
At what point do I seek the warm
embrace of you
my Muse-
forsaking all else
and
all others.
They do not understand,
and
I admit,
regretfully,
though I try,
I do not care for them
to
understand the essence,
the truth that I see,
the reality,
me.
In the beginning,
Many became One.
One,
a number only slightly
less
perfect than
None.
I seek perfection
but I can settle,
for Once.
Sometimes,
just sometimes mind you,
She conspires.
She plots with Her coven
to bring you
where you need.
To be.
——–
The train that doesn’t come
the gentle wisdom from a stinky bum
——–
with Fate She shares a cup of chai,
Circumstance and Her get really high
Expectation…
well….
She missed that call,
cuz She and Chance are at the Ball
enjoying the wonder of it all.
Floating across the sparkly floor
always having, ‘just one dance more’
——
She’ll carry you in strong, gentle arms
and drop you in the midst of harms
but She’s always there to see it through
She’ll never leave, She’s in love with you.
Gasping Stars and Burning Suns
Her’s is not for chaste praying nuns.
Warriors one and all cry out,
“Mother, we know without doubt,
We Know, We KNOW”, they laugh, dance and sing
together with Her.
And She is always.
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Complexed?
Or just suffering from one?
I want to save the world.
Because I am afraid to rescue my own soul from perdition.
So,
Without love
or compassion,
I set about making good works.
I carry, and I soothe,
And patiently guide those I encounter along my way.
Does any true servant know of any other way? I serve this world faithfully, giving everything, but my soul.
That is kept locked away in a little box, Thriving? Rotting? Laughing? Crying.
Who knows? Who cares? It is safe, and so am I. And this way, by giving nothing I can give more.
So why is that not enough? Why is there still a burn, where there should only be void?
Within the silence
of husks abandoned,
rest the failed kernels
of magical symphonies
never to be heard.
notes and chords
harmoniously discordant,
and bewitching rhythms join
in a story of Truth.
We are all
Composers
And
Poets
-with performance anxiety.
Our gifts lay precious, intact, and
inside.
Perfectly wasted
in perfect solitude.
Bravo…
Bravo….
I wanted
perfection
wrapped up in flaws.
I received
flawed beauty
reflected from without.
The hardest
thing I have never done
is to forget that I am not.
I give
until
I can’t,
then I roar
with the fierceness
of a potato.
When’s it all
over?
oh.
theDeprevation 