The words that you read
were born from a wrist,
and aching thoughts
come out as selfish.

Against a speedy yield,
what notions slip away?
The sting to find appeal
confuses me today.

What is the point
in trying so hard,
and doing the work?
With time comes the art.

How do I fit
if I take more time?
And time has no price—
but I do have mine.

Has my passion gone sour,
or has it been sour?
Either way it’s put,
I remain a doubter.

Weaving a feeling
with letters together
is no longer special—
with plenty pretenders.

What is the point
in saying my piece?
If submitting to schemes
dissolves my beliefs.

How do I fit
in ages of code?
Where all that is honed
is now being cloned.

Cattle in pasture
show me my end.
Here, a breeze
with natural sounds
of atoms’ creation.
I am them,
and they are me.
Not enough to know
the fee of living.
The day prior, a liar
granted me some knowledge:
“Master deceiver, I am.
My hugs prevail
through your day.
But I can’t say
I feel the same.
I have borne dramas,
eye to eye—innocuous.
I dawdle while thinking;
you can’t see the obvious.”
Cattle in pasture
don’t have an answer.
Loss from a dagger
staggered the matter.

Outrank sullen shrapnel,
pining for a scar.
Sentinel waves that flux,
perk up to seize the czar.
Intwined within a fragmented silhouette,
I grapple the steel-plated mind’s tar.
“THERE!”
A finite burst of optimism coated me.
The thinner the layers—
the higher the bar.
Two-tone feelings, from past and present,
shake up and shatter my head’s tenets,
while medics get working on my penance.
“FAITH!”
The touch down commences.
From angels comes angles
never witnessed.
The breadth of thirst,
for desire’s syringes,
no longer lasts a day.

Caution must take precedence
When thine ears of man
Hearken unto pleasantries—
Too scant, or overmuch,
Consuming thyself.

Diagonal blinds,
sun aims for the bench,
not me.
Margins offer sight,
dwelling on Bourgainvilleas.
Their periodic nature of willfulness
refuses a clean-up.
I stack my one pass through
against its one of tons—
its lines’ continuum,
grants it surprise to everyone.
I can get jolted
from what’s to come,
and boredom can come,
and fortune can come,
and wisdom can come,
with prisms that numb—
and that’ll be it,
done and done.

I dip and sway through pensive rest.
Questions seeking questions.
After, questions come to question,

invoke a sense of quest along
******, fertile valleys.
Eve not tempted, Abel slain not.

A form takes shape—remarks on shorn
paths unmade. Yet, dust feigns,
posing outcomes chained to bloodstains,

and trapped disdain that I am here.
Lown morn can’t be—ferals
tailored ferals future solid,

and ducking had no real weight.
Whether crafted broken,
or molded careless over haven,

persist, endure, we tell ourselves.
From our limits given,
We’ll get nothing truly certain.

Should this be a five-second read?
With polish to demolish the rest of the unnerving,
sloppy goop that comes out of a poet’s mouth.
Is there room for a poet’s mouth?
While we all stand to live against a threat
that can’t see or breathe what we can.
The threat comes from spawning creativity,
recollecting only what once was
and not what can be.
But fruitfulness that comes from chipping away
at one’s own mistakes and flaws,
severs us from the threat.
It’s the pointing at ourselves,
at society,
at life,
at what once was
and what can be
that fosters a new thread,
which in turn gives us comfort
to know we are in control.
Go ahead, take a walk,
see what your fellow hominids
say on the daily.
We want to know
how their bellies moved,
how they guffawed,
when they saw
that man fall into the seine,
thinking he was some fish whisperer
and his bare hands were enough to get him one.
Anything can be built upon what you’ve seen or heard.
And that’s the solution.
We can breathe.