There is no beautiful epiphany
just an epitaph of a symphony
that's tastefully distracts
from the lack of substance to
our actions.

Jam packed with opinions
and devoid of meaning
I consider giving in
to believing
high personal treason-

A step towards discrimination
and hatred towards those of
other affiliation.
once my mind may have been swayed
but twice brought my second chance

To change and today swings in
and I stand solid in scientific fact,
no room for a trinity
or Didactic pact
and I consider it the right path

But logic leaves no space for love
and the grey space expands
above us between
what we think we need to hear
and what will truly awaken us

and I am disgusted
With my lack of purpose.

C.e.M. 12.18.15

Out of                            touch
Out       of love
      
                   maybe simply
into complacency,

I watch your gaze
-
-
-
falling
past recognition

and I know
It was never your intention

but it's becoming hard
not to mention

If I speak up,
will you listen?

or will you               only hear
the last breaths

of my words
******* up oxygen

like the sound of some
half-hearted     kissing

and I'll wonder                      how
it took                                             so long

to notice
the obviousness

of                            
                                              (something)
missing.

                        I've never been
good at submission.

Cem 12.26.15

Emancipated spirit
Losing pace
This loose flesh hangs
A reminder of
Indiscriminate taste
A tangible limit
To my wastefulness
And haste
And without grace
I tumble from sacred space
Into tainted complacency
And an un- retractable
Fruitless chase.

Like a Phoenix
I will die and replace
That which I lost in poor taste
Laced with predictable catastrophe
Encased in the blasphemy of self
The wealth of life
Now dealt it's wrath
Struck with the intention
Of being felt
Quaking about in my
Synapses
And nerve endings
Time bending becomes threatening,
The clock is an ungracious lender
And the interest of the wasted
moments pending
all too soon be expended
At the turn
Of the seasons
Lost in the maze
Field found its end.
My breath hesitates...



I will do what it takes.
I will not embrace this fate.

C.e.M. 12.22.15

It's a "getting tattoos for the feeling
Instead of deeper meaning"
kind of reasoning
Digger for personal treason
For an egregious timespan
That left you less leisurely
Shaking hands
With your palms tattooed
Too deep to let the ink wear thin
Skin calloused and questioning
The original intent.
You resent
Your inability to repent
And question
How truly resilient
You were.

C.e.M. 12.7.15

It’s not true; not all the way, but they say “it’s all about your choices.”
It makes no sense to me. I’ve never been much for inexplicable and
       inexhaustible benevolence.
I find I spend copious time figuring my meaning, in situations I over
       analyze into mathematical equations...am I conscious,
                or just a calculator?
Or...have I been (and hopefully still am) living, breathing, feeling…?
      flesh.
I question...is this stealing life?
This is evading death.

Arguably, our beginning is our end, no? Upon inception of life, have
      we not inherited death?
Yet again ponder...is there fate? Do they matter? (that is, my choices.)
I was once told, “if you can dream it, you can do it”. Shall I still build
      the perfect life?
I’m beginning to be overtaken with impatience that surpasses my
      innate benevolence.
I cannot say which is weaker, my spirit, or my flesh.
Once I’ve punched in my last numerical decision, how long will my
     finger hover above ‘enter’-
how long until the outcome appears on my mortality calculator?

I often lose myself in the turmoil of emotion. Not cool and collected
        like the others. It’s been decided, no I’m no calculator.
She seems to always descend at an uncanny time. An uncouth cold-
          caller, that Mistress Death.
“I feel young”, I croon. Unanswered by my withering flesh.
I consider my carelessness, wishing I had been the master of more of
     my choices.
Sometimes, it’s one-in-the-same, self-defense and benevolence.
I’m just trying to find some connection, but still I question, “is that all
        that makes this life?”

Will I ever find definition and solid intention strong enough to be
     named the same as all the other countless, hazy perceptions we
                call life?
I find myself to be robotic in response and anxious in nature. Perhaps I
      AM an inhumane Calculator.
I consider myself a fine hostess, even admittedly, to thoughts that strip
        down my benevolence.
“Death to those demons!” is my rising cry, “death!”
Death to unfavorable and unforgivable decisions, may they be buried  
        in my future choices.
May I think logically, and not be seduced into lethargy by the sinister
        siren calls of mortal flesh.
I cannot quench my questions, they crawl in droves beneath my flesh.
What am I do to? What shall I make of my life?
How little do I truly control with personal decisions, how much will I
        suffer from others choices?
Is it more dangerous to be over zealous or indeed catastrophic to
      function merely as a calculator?
How does one prepare for the permanence of death?
Have we soured into surface common courtesy in the guise of true
      benevolence?

I contemplate this often. What it would take to retain a group consciousness in distress…
     true benevolence.
Perhaps if we did not so often succumb to the momentary gratification  
        of pleasing our flesh
we would feel more peaceful, knowing we gave our best, to enter the
      vault of death
grateful and complete, finishing the entirety of our life
with no devious schemes for feigned success or entitlement; no
       manipulated calculations.
we’ve all heard it before, “It’s all about your choices”

But the choices of the best differ from the choices of the rest and
        it all depends on who’s willing to fight
their own flesh for a chance at life before imminent death.
       There’s no calculation for conglomerate benevolence.
Human flaw will always persist.

C.e.M. Written 0ct.5 Edited Oct 6

I'll smoke cigarette, I've thought countless times what it does to me.
I'll down another glass of wine. It's good for the heart, so they say.
I'll laze around 'till three pm. My excuse isn't worth hearing.
I'll dream of  ways I could never be. Should I be less daring?


c.e.m September 13, 2015

secondary vices
were always compromises
to the original morality
you sought.

somewhere in the pages
and peer pressure
and stage pressure
and slave wages
you forgot

you wanted memories
to mean something
and dreams to be
achieved.
But now life long
is long gone
and you lose your steam.

though I can no longer
imagine it
the way I fathom
insatiable hunger
will linger
a little longer.

perhaps someday
I'll be stronger
and I'll be able sonder
more than pessimistic ponderings.

Today I'll go under
and asunder my imagination
from fruitless creation that leaves
me listless and disagreeable.

If the future was foreseeable
perhaps I might be more careful
however knowing the complete anthology
of my defeat would never push me forward.
Is it fortunate I'm blind?
either way I'm falling behind.

C.e.M. September 13. 2015