There is no luck
To this

There is only
The work
The pen
The page and

The time

There is no love
In this

There is only
The transferrance
Of such sentimentality
That ends up being
More in line with
Ego
Obsession
Self-worth and
Self-discovery

Than
Love

How does one get off
This Merry-Go-Round
Of
Words to reveal truths
In
New and exciting ways?

How does one
Carve out their cave
In the mountains of
Society, culture, and time
Only to have - when and if recognized -
One wishing with those who fill it
With praise and their bodies which
Long for answers,

That they would leave?

All I want
All I realize I need
Is a room with a roof
$1500
And a endless supply of stamps
And notebooks

Maybe a scanner
For those that don't take
Hard copy mail

Everything else
Is validation
Is
Thought of reaction or reward
To one's efforts and toiling

No one ever said
Writing was supposed to
Gain anything for

The writer.

Society told you that.
Capitalism told you that.
The banal digital trenches
Of economics whispered that in your ear
With a self-interested grin and
A wink only winked by a philistine

I am I
And I am
Nobody

But

These words
These pages
These sounds
That ***** the recesses
Of the darkest corners
Of that voice
Only you, dear reader, have
Ever spoken to.

Listen to them more.
Listen to them
More often.
Listen to them now.

They speak not to intimidate
Or scare
Or plead or beg or cajole or
Manipulate or borrow

They speak to you
For you to simply know
You and you
Better and better

Let not the hive of life
The busying of truth
Keep you from looking in the mirror
Every now and again to ask,

Who am I?
What am I?
What do I want?
What do I want

To become?

Too long did I veer
Still do
Too long did I hurt
The ones
I held most dear

It is a nice thing
To speak to this place again

I hope to be back soon.