Sore shoulders and weak knees,
my body is trying to tell me something.
Lactic acid is building up in my muscles,
settling in my bones: the end to the cycle.
Tomorrow will begin a theater of interactions that matter,
I should take a lesson in concentration.
This isn't what I want, I yearn for the aches,
I love the uncomfort.
Busy work makes me dismissive, and the people
don't help either.
Smooth-brained and simple minded, it's just a future version
of what could become of me.
An inch lift under foot is enough to ignite my intuition.
A weaker version of myself negotiates with my newly forming self:
offering dull reward and a safe spot reserved for my passive pleasure.
Real life low lives are enough to show me what I want.
Sore shoulders and weak knees, they beg me to stop.
But I didn't ask their opinion.

A cadence of breaths stings my lungs,
my tissues contracting in a rhythmic pattern,
oh how it stung.
Turgid veins swelling with blood, it bites like battery acid.
Tepid vision is clouded, and I'm placing a bid, one still tacit.
Bathing in the moonlight, I have sworn to remain focused,
the stale breath of the night drawing me nearer.
Contentions bind us together, it attracts me, I almost fear her.
Atop the mountains I have had a revelation.
Unlike before, synapses fail to send reason for any stipulations.
A feverishly beating heart, once stagnant, is evolving passion again,
becoming ostentatious.
This pen and ink portend my timidity, acting out for me,
love has again become contagious.
I can feel it in my brittle bones, a tingling spine indicates
I must offer to amalgamate.
Though ardent, I linger in ambivalence, as to when my heart will proceed,
I can only speculate.

Lost in a lack of concentration, head spinning,
focus is diminishing.
6 AM, and both feet are cold inside and out,
reminding him that his blood is also cold, too.

Every morning he dies, and every evening he is reborn,
more weary than before.
25 days have passed and inhibition is slowly trickling in
his now clearer disposition.

But perhaps it is too clear now.

Maybe it was the absence of transparency,
that persisted the synapses to fire,
persisted the creativity to flow,
and persisted the motivation to grow.
But maybe he just thought so.

The star rises over rock: granite, limestone and feldspar
Spring’s early flower awakens and is the first to bud,
Somewhere out in the sky, worlds succeed in the midst of a quasar
And in the ground, other worlds thrive down in the mud

People hustle about, checking time for their own insurance
Animals lay about, unknowing of our artificial construction
Clocks enslave out actions, continually rushing our presence
Perceptions of time will bring about our own destruction

Spring blossoms into summer, summer fades to fall, fall decays to winter,
The changing of the seasons is trying to teach us something
Our mother can’t take everything against which we pit her
Time does not remain static, it is never regressing, but forever coming

We cannot live in a hurry, waiting for a glimpse of leisure to be caught
The animals constantly remind us: time passes whether we measure it or not

Now finally having time to bring thoughts to light,
I’m unsure of which words to write and which ones will portray me right

Tongue’s caught in a trap of a cat,
And not one I’m familiar with
With no book or manual to refer to
I’m going to have to test this by trial, and by error too

Wanting to write exactly what’s on my mind,
Seems I can’t quite pick out all the thoughts that constantly churn and swirl,
sift and whirl,
Ideas that make the milk curdle and are guaranteed to make you hurl

I’ve never been one to thirst for payback,
But the road to the backtrack is turning me into an aphasiac,
And second-rate concerns are the cause of these unnecessary setbacks,
So I can’t allow myself to be another one who gets sidetracked

I’m trying to step out of the lines, trying to create my own version of “fine”
But the world is pushing me back, spitting back at me: “not this time”

Narrow hearts outnumber thoughtful frames of mind,
With dispositions crowded in self-interest, our objectives are misaligned

I tell myself that I live for me, not for you or your expectations,
But if that’s the case,
Why am I tattered and torn by all these refutations?

Something has hit me, it’s all about how you define the decline,
Or if you recognize the “decline” as a divine sign,
Or as a benign design leading to an emotional incline.

And lately, the decline is steady and sure,
And I have yet to find someone with a brain that isn’t premature

Now, so many people indulge in myth, magic and voodoo
It’s stemming from all these mediocre attitudes.
No hint of modification or revision, the world is being caked in a filthy residue