people tell me how to lead my life,
they bully me into it,
they try and mould me,
and try and tell me its simple,
and they tell me that i will bend under there will,

But this is where i say good bye to "them" because since i could think for myself,
i realised that actually life is complicated,
people lie and cheat,
they steal and ******,
they are sly and they use you,

i realised that to be my own person to find my way,
i had to take a different path,
so instead of following in the foot steps of those before me,
i didn't lie or cheat i didn't steal or ******,
all i did was to take what they gave,
and that is pain.

and i realised that,
really thats all we ever feel,
pain

it simple and easy to understand,
it hurts,
it burns,
it makes us cry,
it makes us want to die,

but we don't die we take that pain and turn it on others,
in wars and fights,
by bullying,
by ******,
by picking on the weak and pretending that we,
are strong.

when actually we are weak,
so weak we find it hard to stand in the morning,
we regret our actions,
we regret the words that have said,
and think to our selves,
why, why did i do it.

so when those people tell me how to lead my life,
and they bully me and hurt me,
i take it,
over and over again,
some say that thats being strong,
but me personal i think its because im weak,
and i cant stand the fact if i get off he floor ill just be beat back down,

but sometimes thats what we need to do,
to get up,
to take the pain,
and stand up,
stand strong,
and take control,
and lead our own lives.

Yeah, that'd be it;
*I'm quixotic as ****.

Sometimes
I feel that Life is a gift that I don't deserve.
While there is abundant beauty and infinite wonder,
there is so much pain, suffering and despair.
While I wish the pain would subside,
I know such a desire is fruitless
as existence requires suffering, or it at least certainly seems that way.
Every action and non-action propagate ripples which may never calm.

Life is a paradox:
Why? Why not? How? How could it not?
Illusory, yet real. Constant, yet with cessation.
Joy, pain, excitement, dread, disappointment, elation, fear, birth, death, now, never

So much that seems wrong to one person
all done just because our circumstance binds us
to things we'd rather do without.

So frightening is the notion of death, yet so painful is the concept of life.
Sometimes death seems more comfortable and desirable than life.

Lost in thought, found in confusion;
I think my life would be a gift better utilized by someone else.
I feel like a failure. A plague. A source of disdain and pain. Confusion.
Mostly to myself, but I've seen the effects of it on others, as well.
Sometimes I hate life too much to live
but some flame yet burns within me
demanding that I feed it oxygen and inspiration
that causes me to yearn for yet another breath.

Besides, what if I were to die tomorrow?
I might as well live now, today,
while I still have the chance.

Different People regard Theatrics in different ways.
Theatrics, to me, are a celebration of mere existence, in ways.

Some people never seem to gain an appreciation for Theatrics.
Most save their Theatrics for special occasions, or vicariously bask in those of others.
Few embody their own Theatrics; identify with them, live through them.

The way I see it,
each day can be a reason to celebrate
with nicer than normal attire
for seemingly no good reason
or wearing some theatrical eyeliner
or to move with a bit of a dance from A to B
or to incorporate whatever combination of aspects
of theatrical expression.

You see, Theatrics, to me,
are a means for expression,
and, as an Artist,
nothing else can matter more
on a personal level
than expressing what it is
I have in my Mind.

Theatrics
needn't be restrained
merely to the Stage,
for the World is a Stage
and we're all playing our parts
so we may as well have a little fun
and celebrate each moment
with our own styles
of Theatrics.

But,
that said,
everything in moderation.

She brings me morning coffee and tissues
(Tissues, ostensibly a coaster)
for she knowing.

Poetry,
I am writing,
needing then,
to wipe up
the spilling
tears.


PostScript:
Which of the mysteries within this poem
need answers?
All or None.

As soon as you're born, they make you feel small
by givin' you no time instead of it all,
'til the pain is so great you feel nothing at all;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

They hurt you at home and they hit you at school,
they hate you if you're cleaver, and they despise a fool,
'til you're so ******* crazy, you can't follow their rules;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

When they've tortured and scared you for twenty-odd years
then they expect you to pick a career
when you can't really function, you're so full of fear;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

Keep ya doped with religion, *** and T.V.
and you think you're so clever and classless and free
but you're still ******* peasants as far as I can see;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

There's room at the top, they are tellin' you still,
but first you must learn how to smile while you ****
if you want to be like the folks on the hill;
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

If you wanna be a Hero, well, just follow me.
If you want to be a Hero, well, just follow me.

My father, gone fifty years,
A transplanted German,
Arrived early, in the 1920's,
Fleeing the worldwide depression,
That decided to follow him to America.

Traveling salesman, raconteur,
A busy man who decided he
Found the right girl at age forty,
But by the time I was teen,
He was, then uncommon,
An older man, an older father.

Raised three kids,
Working six days a week.
Unlike the other fathers,
White shirt and tie every day
Even Sunday.

No backyard in the city,
To toss a base or football to his son,
Though he wouldn't, couldn't,
While his son grew,
Grew up worshipping
Three Gods:
Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, and
The bold, the bald Y.A. Tittle,
Heroic sports figures.

The son who went to Yankee Stadium
For the first time,
There he saw the color
Emerald  Green in the Bronx,
In The House Ruth Built,
Whispered Hallelujah,
There, courtesy of someone else's dad.

Goatee he wore, and on Saturdays,
Wore a black jacket, striped pants
And Homburg hat to the synagogue.
Custom of his Hamburg upbringing.
The only one, the only dad,
Of course, dressed that way.
Proud of his style, his heritage,
Helping me not to fit right in.

Yet twinkle twinkle did his eyes sparkle,
Such that all the other children loved him,
Better and best.

But I was the son with the unlike,
The father, unlike any others.
Age thirteen, he's asked me this:
Now you are a man, I wish of thee this,
Accompany me to synagogue every day,
As is my custom, and all your father's,
Twenty generations before me.

When he passed, the stories of
His saintly deeds, his help,
How he saved, brought many to
The United States of America,
Including his five sisters and their families.
During, after WWII, became legends,
all the while, trying to make a living.

One time, I was listening to
Rock n' Roll, on the radio,
In the den, study, his home office,
Where
The Stereo,
proudly sat.

Chased me out,
Paperwork to do,
But stopped me first,
Listening to the song.
That happened to be next.

When this old world starts getting me down
And people are just too much for me to face
I climb way up to the top of the stairs
And all my cares just drift right into space

On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let me tell you now

When I come home feelin' tired and beat
I go up where the air is fresh and sweet
Up on the roof
I get away from the hustling crowd
And all that rat race noise down in the street
Up on the roof

On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let's go up on the roof
Up on the roof

At night the stars put on a show for free
And darling, you can share it all with me
I keep a tellin' you

Right smack dab in the middle of town
I've found a paradise that's trouble proof
Up on the roof
And if this world starts getting you down
There's room enough for two, up on the roof
Up on the roof

Up on the roof
Up on the roof
Oh, come on, baby
Up on the roof
Oh, come on, honey
Up on the roof
Everything is all right
Up on the roof
Say that, "It's alright"
Up on the roof
Oh, we gotta go up on the roof
Up on the roof
The Drifters - Up On The Roof

He listened carefully,
Pronouncing with an austere smile,
"That I like, now go."

Now fifty years later,
Having failed spectacularly as a
Father, family man, having never saved a
Soul or life, I remember the outcast days
Of my growing up years,
With a different kind of father
Than all the kids who
Played catch, had big suburban homes.

I never understood much,
Always struggled to be one
Unsuccessful in fitting in,
In my high school yearbook,
They outed my anomie,
"Either apart or ahead of us,
Nat stands, uniquely individual."

So here is a poem, an apology,
No, more an anthology, an anthem,
Of, and,
To my pop, for resenting, misunderstanding,
How
You were more than unique,
How you were special, in ways
No teenager could see.

I am have written some of this before.
Tender apologies, but when I awoke this
Post Thanksgiving Day, at
6:00 Ante Meridiem,
In not my bed,
In not my city,
Pandora surprised me
Real Good,
With an old song,
Up on the Roof.

These words,
The ones you are reading did not drift,
Nay, they spilled out in shades of
Tearful regretful guilt-filled,
Pooling tears that cannot n'ere erase
Prior youthful errors, grievous sins.

Of course,
They like to surprise you,
At the end of their song,
Twisty surprise ending.

I will say it, not you,
In some ways, not all,
I grew up to be just like him,

And for that,
I will give thanks,
Not just one day, every day,
Until it is among,
My last thoughts passing,
Proceeding me,
Preceding me,
As I depart this globe.