I am one to find life at the hearth
Hearth of assumed happiness, comfort too
Lost within a haven of all ease, gentle truth
Though I am aware of the consequence
That follows from refusing to truly live
I cannot apply the necessary, most certainly
But there is little in my life of blissful dimness
That would induce this shameful existence
To get out of the hearth, the sanctuary, asylum
Of hope without fear, shame, any living

When people say they're tired of a person, often a friend—
Do they mean, exhausted with the idea of submission to their actions
Responding to their preferences
Falling prey to all their ways
Or hearing them drone loquaciously
Putting down disagree-ers gratuitously
Speaking of themselves, about very little else
Until all hope and faith in them has deteriorated beyond all mercy?
I am yet to confirm
What is true beyond all else
Gone through the Rubicon,
Universal to all nations
But why must I tolerate a monk
That devoutly praises himself to the depths
Beyond all fierce comprehension,
His devotion remains a quandary

In my hour of childhood
I was simple-hearted and free.
The notion of existence
Intricately confounded me.

The true nature of my essence
Was not of my discerning.
To be—right here and now
I did not find such concerning,

If existence is a concept
Then I am the spawn of chaos.
Truly, those of lack of truth
Cannot bear what is definitively best

Existence is brief, and life is a flower
Prepossessing and free, but gone in an hour.
This was my cognition set
In a world consumed with children's life bets

There is nothing in my trials,
Nought in my sentimental thought
Nothing in my possession, not at all within pure dreams
That has the strength to restore my blessed, beloved simplicity...

There it is again. That sound you've known for so long but can never grow comfortable with. It's resonance is beyond anything describable in this world; by these means. You know it so well yet cannot fathom it. Years pass without your awareness of what this thing, this intrusively disturbing abomination truly is. You effortfully and excruciatingly ponder, analyze and rework your thoughts to no avail. You are virtually incapable—and utterly useless.
As you stand, sit, or lie, pondering your lack of discernment, you stop in your tracks.
You realize something you never have before.
What is it?

This is the poem about itself
In a futile attempt at meta cognition
Why would a poem detest its own self?
Why bother discerning purpose beyond all else

Why do I consider myself an anathema
When others behold and perceive me as beautiful
I'm devoid of a body to do anything dutiful
Nothing prepossessing, not even a cuticle

For what, after all, what role do I play
In a convulsive storm of life each grim day
Bleak—the subtlety of shame, agony of dull pain
Haunting me! What less may I speak

I constantly ponder my creator's reason
For penning me in that malevolent season
Was I evoked by boredom or pain?
My consistency only denotes dismay.

This is the poem about itself
Ruminating the hell of all hells
A poem of darkness, perplexity too
What is my meaning, why?—I now ask you

I can hear a blood bath brewing
From here to all the land
I hear the masses weeping
Humanity, understand.

I have no hope in trying
Or yearning at the sight
Sight of joyousness amiss
When all of life seemed right

There is a darkness stirring
Upon this place called home
There is a purpose dwindling
In war of all the known

It’s so odd to think that you’ve wasted a day.
Yielded to submission,
Succumbed to the norm,
Accepted and embraced ones mediocrity—
Have we reason to be fond of hollowness?
No pride, null of shame,
And yet so full of—what?
Emptiness and void of anything,
The dim twilight we are warned against,
How hard is it to try in the least?
If failed, then one shall still progress!
The only one who’s failed
Hasn’t even tried at all,
The one who hasn’t succeeded
Has his precious recollection.
I’ll tell you,
Succeeding has no place
In *living.