we've been playing for months, yet
i am no longer the master of my own game.
i sit and wonder, "how did i get here?"
without ever truly questioning myself.
simply because i knew.
it is as though I am currently without a name.
considerably since "This" is no longer Me.
who I am, who That is,
                I am no longer certain.
I have simply become a replica of Its impression on Self.
      "tick tock, tick, tock."
the arrogance of time refuses to stop,
and "now" becomes a fleeting "then"
as My life slips through "Her"
into a dazed, drunken phase.
time only lingers in the present
for those who are truly Present.
Her time is lost, so what is My time
when the days blur together?
"Her" memory sanitized and wiped cleaned.
***** cleans wounds, right?
Dissociation to self,  the insouciant desire to care.
an erratic, chaotic, tumultuous torrential downpour.
I'm theatrical sure, but passionately so.
"Passion," i'll drink to that.
                   "Pain" has me pouring another,
                                                    and another.
"Reward me," and we'll cheers to the clear liquid that
warms my throat with each increasing gulp.
"Relax." you worked hard, take one or two.
              Six deep, Seven's the magic number,
                          plus, what's one more?

yet one will never be enough.    "sleep or shoot."
            
                            don't forget to swallow.
                            you know you love it.

stop saying no when You can say "yes,"
and stop holding back, when I'm telling You "NO."

                         stop fighting...
                                                ...su­ccumb to the misery.
  
 besides, just one pour will make it all better.

i'm at war.
but how do i fight
my own demons?
how can i pull myself down,
when they push me above.
above my conscious layer,
in the ego is where they thrive.
if i can submerge
into the subconscious,
if my will aids my side,
i will fight
and i will survive.

Just like a shirt cannot
hide the hurt
or a headache
beneath a hat

nor a heartache in a suit
or cold feet in a boot
or glove for a trembling hand
neither a thought I think
could be bound
by a headband

You may appear
cool, calm and collected
but make-up and costume
cannot hide the bleeding
of a wound thats infected

Quarrels, the little

war at home, my fear of your --


being different.

We want to see –
see clearly and unfiltered.
I was mostly getting it wrong before.
Mother shows me her vision,
and then I thought…
Ha! See there! How
can you let Mother’s vision unfold
if you think? See. You don’t think.
Thinking is what gets in the way.
I show you what is
and you try to make it happen
with your thoughts,
as if I need help
creating my own world.
It’s already how it’s supposed to be.
I’m only showing you what will be.
What can your thinking
do to make it come about?
You can receive my vision
and just watch it unfold.
As in, each moment, I show you
how and when to act;
what to speak; when to rest.
You are just here – just here.
Do nothing and enfold into me.

between
the monstrosities
of glass, concrete and steel,
i spy
an infinite expanse of Mediterranean blue sky,
transporting me to a spiritual high.

way up there,
a self absorbed lonely eagle
soars in ecstasy,
untouched
by the noise and suffering
going on down here.


© 2022