The doubt and
the uneasiness
reverberates all through
my aching bones.
Bounces off
my stained lungs,
sore muscles.
Tears through
my broken heart
and comes to
rest against
my dying kidney.

The skepticism
and uncertainty
brings about a chill.
Like a strong
gust of Arctic wind
against nerve
exposed rotting teeth.

There's so many
masters of this craft,
so many who are far more
greater than I could
ever hope to become.
So many whose words
and whose ability to
get it all out and down
causes me to second
guess my own path.

I don't have what
it takes to turn these
angry questions
and troubling thoughts
into something more
than just drink and
drug induced ramblings
of a man who has set
himself so far apart.

Times like these
I'm afraid.

It's times like
these that I find it
easier to turn
to the
poppy.

These things trouble
me.
Why isn't everyone else
so concerned,
why is it I'm so
unhappy with the way
of our world.
Why is it they
are so easily satisfied
while I'm still so incomplete.

If I stare at the
clock hard enough
this doubt filled
time will
pass.
Just like the
cars full of smiling
clueless ones
pass me by on
Gaffey street.

This time will pass,
as the man in the
brown pants
contemplates a better place
before throwing himself from
the deep green span into a
polluted sea of dish water blue.

This here will
pass like all the other times
I've felt the empty.

This time will
pass, just as the
ages have passed leaving
anwserless questions
within its troubling wake.

This time will pass.
But not until
death brushes its
coldness against my
shoulder before
whispering
a line by Nietzsche
into my ringing ear,
will this time truly end.