don't ask permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have no clue.
my torment,
the headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
to poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay the bills.
a breadwinner has a job.
feed the family.
protect and serve.
do it well.
because there is
no acceptable excuse.
am afraid.
when was supposed
to be easing on down,
am slipping under.
have come so far.
my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition,
in the legs, knotted shoulders,
aging faster than
hungers, fingers, can write.
warped,
reversal of causality,
the older he gets,
the more mouths to feed.
man, it is tough,
this unexpected,
for me,
already,
a nine lives survivor.
can he do it
one mo' time
on borrowed lives,
again?
it is simply amazing.
my eyes,
constantly tearing,
nobody notices.
Do not!
like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
have been strong
so long.
but this well,
just got dregs left,
drudgery dregs ain't potable,
worthy of your drinking.
need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
there's not a single
object on this planet
wanted to posses
or worse,
be
possessed by.
more cannot say.
jutting chin,
stomach ****** in.
nothing gonna
change my world.
monday,
wrestle with strife once again.
today, on the sabbath,
deny reality.
Do not!
like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
have been strong so long.
when hearing Shakespeare
my own voice, stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
am ashamed
of every word
ever wrote.
hush me not,
for tis true,
yet write on for
an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a subject, a life,
mine,
still unmastered,
even after
decades of trying.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
don't ask permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have no clue.
my torment,
the headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
to poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay the bills.
a breadwinner has a job.
feed the family.
protect and serve.
do it well.
because there is
no acceptable excuse.
am afraid.
when was supposed
to be easing on down,
am slipping under.
have come so far.
my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition,
in the legs, knotted shoulders,
aging faster than
hungers, fingers, can write.
warped,
reversal of causality,
the older he gets,
the more mouths to feed.
man, it is tough,
this unexpected,
for me,
already,
a nine lives survivor.
can he do it
one mo' time
on borrowed lives,
again?
it is simply amazing.
my eyes,
constantly tearing,
nobody notices.
Do not!
like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
have been strong
so long.
but this well,
just got dregs left,
drudgery dregs ain't potable,
worthy of your drinking.
need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
there's not a single
object on this planet
wanted to posses
or worse,
be
possessed by.
more cannot say.
jutting chin,
stomach ****** in.
nothing gonna
change my world.
monday,
wrestle with strife once again.
today, on the sabbath,
deny reality.
Do not!
like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
have been strong so long.
when hearing Shakespeare
my own voice, stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
am ashamed
of every word
ever wrote.
hush me not,
for tis true,
yet write on for
an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a subject, a life,
mine,
still unmastered,
even after
decades of trying.
Begun Sept. 5th, completed 11/23/13
Request permission to use this poem