Don 3d

I wish I was an escape artist:
A silent escapade out of the prison where I dwell.
No trail behind for the watchdog to follow,

I feel hollow
I hear him howl.
And I've tumbled down and,
I see him prowl.

He is a predator,
And I'm no artist.

I wish I was an escape artist.

But I'm no master of disguise,
And I'm not the fastest man alive.
The bastard's always faster than the feet on which I fly.
I always tumble-weed down into my crippling demise.

I wish I was an escape artist.

Don 7d

Hope is a kind of grit
- Exists -
In hostile places
- A kind of gift -
When we are broken.
- it doesn't break -
Strong in pieces
- without permission -
Here to stay
- That faintest voice -
Sit and listen
- its reason enough -
Hope is speaking.

Don 7d

What does it mean to be you?
The four letter sums of a artificial test?
A kind of prison, a brig
Mired in generalization.

We aren't four letters.
We are syllables, vowels, consonants, prefixes, suffixes, nouns, adjectives, verbs -
The conglomerates of a "person"
Static and changing.

We are complex,
We are simple.
Readily understood,
Readily misunderstood,
We are people.

Don Aug 7

Confront me with sharper truths,
Through iron mail
Pierce my side

Confront me,
Tell me who I am and who I’m not,
Tell me
Tell me
Who am I supposed to be?

Long battles fought
Through winter,
Day, and night,
I’ve gone mental wondering what kind of man I am,
And what kind of fight I fight -
Fear then flight.
Fear then flight.

I’m a soldier here and now
Scarred and weathered by crisis,
And the faintest idea of what it means to have “control”
And “be responsible for”
What kind hardships and choices do “I” own?

I’m a man.
Weary, tired
Growing transparent.
I AM A GHOST.
Words mean a lot less to me now than change.
Oh, I’m sick of fight and fear –
Day and night
Day and night.

Don Aug 6

I have to wonder how the first language was made:

Without a word at all, with a  silent unspoken kind -
Language comes from nothing,
A miracle for the mind,
A way to say it all,
But still never say it all.

Don Jul 26

To weep at the Wonderful
is not a sad thing
To live for the Wonderful
is not a wasted life

There are tears unexplained
And words that can't be spoken
There is a heft that remains
But will soon be taken

The Wonderful is an unspoken thing

Don Jul 20

I can't think,
I can't speak,
I can't sleep,
I can't control; sow and reap, repeat

No mind, no matter
Fear and terror
No solace, no sleep
No counting sheep

No mind, no matter
Not to worry, I'm not getting better

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