The Siamese twin of anti-commitment.

Performance assurance,
it's not on my mind.
But a next-morning
pillow, complacent with time,
or the wedding to party to funeral line,
and the "Sorry's" and "Thank You's" and
half empty sighs.

Not a fan of commitment,
but just love is just fine,
not the money or muscles,
for which you will pine,
when I'm grumpy and bitter and old, and confined
to the frame of a man who was once so sublime.

The life of a soul
is like a candle.
Birth ignites the solid
wick,
and a fire, consuming, is breathed
into the malleable consciousness;
the wax of knowledge
is melted
and molded.

The soul is born
quite opposite of animosity,
and thrives in the
rapture of curiosity.
It is whole,
with nothing foretold
but that existence unfolds,
till pain settles and
fringes the rim.

Fear and hurt and loathing,

the gusts of extinguishing,

take back the breath of ignition,
and leave the candle's wax to settle
as before.

However, to the surprise of the mind,
observers shall find, that much like
the levels of wax still to mold,
the conscious, depressed,
is weary
and much less bold,

but, yet, passion thrives,
and the fire survives,
anew to seek what is
more potent
and true.

The cycle continues,
repeating.
Melting and fading and
melting and
fading,
and

Knowledge is gained!
Ignorance is burned like
the wick of the soul's
candle!

Until the wax is quite low,
and the fire won't show,
and the wick of life's candle,
once burning and fading,
is now dying.

The enlightened light,
the fire and shine,
was snuffed into nothing
by time.

The wax's decreasing
was brought forth
with the increase of knowledge;
with the process of living;
with the suffereing of wisdom.

Perhaps, then,
ignorance is not bliss,
but bliss is death,
for in death there is time,
time to reflect, and to grind
out the details of life,
and to rest
without the crossing breaths
of passion and exhaustion.

Yin and Yang have nothing on my
bipolar, wishy-washy personality.
I'm self-diagnosed;
a pile of mashed potatoes
where the butter's just not melting in.

I am an indiviudal,
not quite unique,
but quite right hypocritical,
and not so naive,
but I'm sure plenty cynical;
that's why I survive.
I'm not so **** conventional,
call me the Impulse Individual.  

But to me,
that's not some sin,
I'm not compelled
to fall right into the wake
with the rest of us.

A gut-wrenching pull of vocalless expression.

I'm wondering how passionate
and quite truly immaculate
the rhythm has to be,
for me to see
how every single note
brings a rattle to my bones,
and shakes the fringes of my soul
until I fin'ly lose control,
but then I know,
and every second as it grows,
I start to show
the very essence of the mold,
until my heart decides to blow,
and then I'm left
with all the pieces
of a smiling
abode;
the sonic waves that were composed;
the very rhythm and it's home.

Birth:
the long,
clean,
feathered
pen,
dipping into the
just-filled cup of ink.
Life:
the deft,
curious strokes,
lying,
breathing
into the canvas
all the wonder
of emotion.
Death:
the splatter painted handle,
the feather-losing fray,
the crippled wrist of occasion,
with the upward stroke, instead of down.
the blot of black,
in the all white nothingness.