that i am willing
to sit through this
suffering discomfort
and awkwardness
repeatedly and
of my own volition
must be a testament
to something
i am just not clear
whether it should
be taken as a positive
         or negative
it might show courage
could merely be folly
a sign of resilience perhaps
or remnants of my naivety
it could be inspirational
belief in oneself or
simply a case of conceit
let's be honest
it could be any of those
or it could be none
yet more than likely
i am overthinking
everything again

Shall the sun not rise and fall on the morrow?
From dusk to dawn then recur?
But not is it praised, holy giver of life,
Almighty sovereign? Doth not shine like the eyes
Of thine lover, nor clasp thou mind like the smile.
And yet still the sun be deserving of such title?
Rather I, the embrace of the eighth then to ever be
Held by its rays, and would thy not? Hark! The delight
One feels at the simple touch of one's lips against thy lovers’
Outweighs with incomparable relish thou suns rays.
But in mind, the sun will rise and fall on the morrow.

There was no crosswalk here
yet crossed I nonetheless.
And with just mild fear,
I ran across the lane.

The light had took too long.
The button stayed depressed.
A street sign said 'twas wrong
to run across the lane.

But I cut across the street
and then I cut again.
knowing not where I'd be,
I ran across the lane.

Until the corners I had cut
all caught up with my feet,
and then at last I was resigned
to just walk down the street.

In a kingdom full of inclemencies my hubris does not fail me
Profuse and Fierce, Some may call me arrogant
'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It's a recording of my failings.  
'It's that amorality,' I muttered.

My hubris is my substratum towards my nescience.
It is that aspect that will lean me towards drowning in the sea of my own incoherent imbecility.
It's a deep program in my faulty code, a nightmare towards monks.
It's the ink on my arms, tattooed to my soul.

'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It does not fail to show in my wording.
It's the ferry to sea, the net in the ocean.
It is limber as it is inventive, with every exception.

It has no ingenuousness, it is unlike modesty and threatens to surmount me.
It's a sandwich in which has caught every hitch of breath, it leaves me bewitched, no certain pitch that I can tell afore it chokes me.
It leaves no correspondence with those around me, too caught up in my own fantasies that I can no longer celebrate or verbalize felicitously.

Many times I wished that I preserved my receipt so that I could trade in my Hubris for something a little less mucusless for it is something akin to Judas, and I cannot utilize it for anything utilizable.

If I could somehow find a way that would lead me to a resilient recuperation. I would judge that to be more utilizable then this Hubris that encumbers me. No matter how many times I beat it down, it war's like a lion and a bunch of tourists on a safari.

If only this grotesque lion-like hubris was shot by the doter of a hubris poacher. Every generation would be gratified and they would find that it is much more facile to coerce without that unpleasant Hubris.

Of course, I suppose in a way hubris could be utilizable in some situations that required it. If I somehow found a way to trade my hubris for something like modestly and found that I missed my hubris quite dearly. I would laugh at my incoherent imbecility and perceive myself to be remotely mad!

These ravings of my hubris I'm quite sure because I found it so consequential to indite a poem of stark preposterousness. In a contingency like this, I suppose my hubris is getting quite polished, so sharply able to strike down any sense of modesty.

I conjecture this is the terminus of this arrangement, please omit my hubris for a moment. I suppose I should give you some tea afore I dose myself in a salubrious dose of radiation.

Putrid scent of rotting elm
A hollow vessel, none at helm

Floating, Drifting, Swaying yet
A smoke-filled room, a shallow bet

What more than logs can human be
With not a helmsman in his sea?

For what’s a ship without its crew
But dying wood and foamy slew?