One day you'll lie down tired,
albeit thoroughly satisfied.

Yet you'll still remember
those times.

Fear whispers in the night.

"Come,"
the voice of a fallen angel.

A voice like wind chimes
being dragged down a gravel road.
Like a harp
tumbling down a staircase.

Fear slithers from under a tinct veil of doubt,
that dark curtain hung behind my eyes.

Fear is there,
disguised as apathy.
Sopping with facades.
Laden with guilt.

Fear is here and I see it clearly.

I wonder if everyone else does too.

Somewhere along the way
poems became status updates.

But maybe that's not quite right,
they invited us to write
and...
We convinced ourselves
that it was worth it.

Just for the likes.

The irresistible compulsion.

In my mind's eye
I've already taken my brittle phone,
grasped it longways
and slammed it repeatedly upon the edge of my desk.

My beautiful mind's eye,
It shows me the gruesome satisfaction
of so many bittersweet actions
that I dare not take.

Even as I write this.
As I live
and breathe.
How wondrous it would be,
free of this digital monarchy.
How magnificent a scene;
my cell phone split in twain.
But..
Alas, nary a second would pass,
we're I to destroy this rectangular glass,
without me wondering
if all was well.

Maybe once my family is dead,
Or maybe not so dramatic...
Maybe if I get a land line instead...
Then I could relish the taste
of destroying something
I truly do hate.

A bitter broken toe
only adds to the feeling.

The feeling of satisfaction.
Top down,
flying,
on Friday night roads.

I'm not one to let a limp
hobble my grave enjoyment
of a summer accomplishment.

I'm not one to let a tiny bone
stop me
from a hard day's work.

I think I'm ready for winter.
The sprawling white blankets
that always blind my eyes.
The gossamer sheen of
a fresh morning frost, and
watching the rising sun
eat it from the windshield.
My breath unfurling about my head,
like I'm exhaling visible wisps of life.
Tough days. Restful nights.
Brandy and nicotine.
I think I'm ready for winter.

There's pleasure in choosing the hard road.
It's hidden sometimes behind a veil of
gratuitous and strenuous labor.
It's hidden behind making ends meet.
It's hidden behind a broken toe,
behind painful work that needs to be done.
It's hidden under a day spent
trudging through a foot of snow.

There's pleasure in choosing the hard road.

It's hidden,
but I promise you it's there.

I've wandered past the edge of perpetuity,
and found it wanting.
I've danced on the fence of commitment,
wavering between never and always.
The infinite has mocked me,
I embraced my bitter mortality
and mocked the abyss right back.
There's no reasons beyond what we decide.
There's no reason at all.

Needs are met,
so set sail on the glass surface
of simple contentedness
and let the breeze of life
paint wrinkles on our faces.

Let's smile at the waning sunlight,
laugh at the encroaching pale moon.

For no reason.
No reason at all.

Foggy this morning.
Driving, listening.
Adjustable seats,
there's a rattle somewhere
in the headliner.

What am I supposed to want out of life?
How does anyone figure out
what they want?
I'm perpetually contented with
my uninspired lifestyle.
Voices say to want more,
voices coax me towards buying property.
Coax me towards having a family.

My therapist says he sees
a tinge of a nomadic lifestyle
in how I've been persisting.
He says there's nothing wrong with that.

I don't know what that means.

I need a bridge to cross,
a staircase to climb.
I need something to ascend,
something to traverse.

I need something else.