Sometimes I sit,
and I ponder,
and I claw for inspiration.
Filth encrusted metaphors
burst like bog bubbles.
Fill my mind.
Sleek and killing similes
pounce through synapses.
Claws in brain.
All sing of fall,
of decay.
Of mud and grime
clinging to souls,
like guilt to a survivor.
Sometimes I sit,
and I ponder,
and I claw for inspiration
only to find
that these aren't true,
they can't be true,
or at least
they're only shadows
compared to the giant flame,
because the world
is always getting better.

Can't you see?
Just look out of you.
This beauty
comes not only from within,
but from farm, field, mountain, and glen.
Happenstance and luck had no place
within what is simply heaven's grace.
But yes another gift was choice,
and yes what shakes is my voice
because I cannot force
this society's course.
I cannot show you this is real,
that it is not just how I feel.
That this is truth.
This is light.
But what hurts the most
is seeing the ghost,
the old you,
the knowing you,
the you that's gone.

What do you write about when you're empty?
not
a depressing,
a dreary,
a crying empty.
Just
a sitting
a wondering,
a being.
Not content,
not needy,
just neutral.
When that spark eludes you,
when the profound refuses to
scream and scratch
at the borders of the mind,
What do you do?
Maybe strike pen to page in defiance
or just simply think,
maybe go for a run,
or simply drink.
When you're neutral
options are open,
all open.
When you're neutral,
you're free.

We all know
what to do
on land
in sun.
Laugh and share
love and care.
But what about
the deep?
What about
the underneath?
Lessons taught
don't compare
to the devil's lair in blue.
Sinking
        d
         o
          w
           n.

Unknown
against
Unknowing.

Plunged
into an ocean,
bottomless and blue.
Oh yes it's deep
no bottom in sight to keep,
certainly no surface.
I kick as told,
through the cold.
Glad I took
swimming lessons.
But even so,
my swimming lessens.

Brown-gray whiskers
chaotically twirling
wreath his face.
A testament to hardship
and wisdom accumulated.
His eyes are an ocean
deep and unknowable.
Monsters swim in its deep,
Indescribable.
His face is cracked and wrinkled
but the skin is taut
too tight and jawline stretched.
Mist-like hair meets shoulders,
greasily tangling.
In front of him a rust spotted buggy,
creaking
groaning
holds his world.
Trash bag continents slide against each other
making new mountains,
transforming
shopping cart geography.
I meet his eyes on the sidewalk
but quickly look away.
I always look away.

Every day we're told
of our specialty-
        Individuality.
We're all different
not sensible-
        Incomprehensible.
To see another mind
even marginal-
        Impossible.
But the more I look.
deep down
        Around
we're really all
the same-
        even in name.