Not a fan of it, you say
It isn't me, or
I'm not into that
sort of thing*

Oh, honey
we're doing it all wrong
Our egos tie our limbs
to the bedposts; and the self,
the I,

stabs, pokes, and prods

until we lose ourselves
in it's warmth, like a gun
to our heads,

a bullet engraved with
the word Self

and we **** ourselves
every night;

every choice,
a measured note
in a song we can't
call our own

we'll sing out of tune
anyway,

the Western civilization

is a spiderweb of self
deceit

and the entire world
will know the power
of I

as it spreads like poison

through the veins.

Things get broken
Hearts
Minds
It's no-one's fault
It never is
Not really
Butter fingers and distraction
Without malice or forethought
Things
Like hearts and minds
Slip
And shatter on hard contact with reality

                                       By Phil Roberts

Sitting on my own but not necessarily alone
My mind roams and eats me down to blood and bones.
With eyes watery and wet though no tears have fallen yet
I set my jaw against the first tinglings of regret.

If I am hurting it will fade, without assistance from a blade
Box the guilt carefully away and place it back from where it came.
If I am unsteady I will find balance without a plea
And rely on no one but myself to help right me.

Sitting with memories and regrets and possibilities
Sitting with the jealousy and shame and the whole of me.
Making temporary peace with the little things if only to sleep
In full awareness that they still creep where my thoughts run deep.