Waiting for the endless train
With all the other frowning statues,
Eyes to the floor,
The others ignore
The cracks in my feet
And stems in my toes
As I weather the patience
Required to wait;
A typical feat.

Born ****** and confused,
Cradled near our mother, fused
By cords of love to replace
The cords the midwife cut.
Growing curious with the years,
We stumble, fall, and scream; tears
Of rage our parents see
As rage of vitriolic ease.
Bony pains in skin too thin
For our shuddered growth; our skin
Elastic tortured thus
Erupts in meteoric fuss.
Hormonal sin of endless flesh
Writhes wicked, silken; her dress
A gauzy show of mental glimpses,
Caught in thought, like kisses.
We reach an end to just begin,
The wall they built was far too thin
To stop us in our desperate race
To join the rats within their chase.
Now we're there, we would return
To wicked thoughts, how they burn,
But less than pain that we now feel
As adults in our ordeal.

When you went to sleep today,
I counted all the steps
That sat between you and me,
Like miles and miles of roads,
So many twists and turns;
The path was lost without a trace.

Is it strange to think
That we judge our love
By distance to our hearts?
Or do we choose to use
The ground between us
To fill that empty space?

So explain these tears
That fall together,
Sliding down my cheek
To join my other fears,
Of romance and careers,
As we drive this finite race.

So what do I think,

When wandering through

The hordes of armoured advice

That is offered in chains

Of expectation

That can close like a vice?

If they go to war

When you ignore

Their oh-so-nice

Advice,

It’s no advise at all,

But an order, a command,

A carefully concealed demand.

You can listen to it, sure,

But I’d sooner bed

the enemy.

Advise should be a gift,

Nothing taken, only this:

Remember what the Cat said,

“If they were right, I’d agree,

It’s them they know, not me”,

A fundamentally

Self-serving

philosophy.

Isn’t that the point?

Or do our friends think

We’re no longer free?

Keep your own council,

And leave my wars

To me.

There must have been a thing in the night
As my tongue and brain mated
And tamed the words that sated
Their need to notice I’m bright.
Hi, hot and me hit home,
And words fly like swords,
As add and dad impress my wards,
Now I’m more poet than proteome.