For I have always
sought to shun the alleys
where my shadows stretch too high,
ever hesitant to linger on
dialogs without outcomes,
too tangled and far-reaching,
for I foresee the fall of me,
and how the quicksand
born of thoughts ensnares me,
crippling, pleading for mercy.
I have been sprinting for far too long,
haunted by the specter of what
I will not be,
or for what I mould me to be
for I am not
what you perceive me to be.

A hundred thousand years ago,
give or take a month,
an epic poem started strongly
with a clever grunt.

Then stanza 2,
an urgent cry.

Now all we hear is,
Who am I?

Yes,
they all have questions,
don’t they?
I do have some answers that come easily,
earnest and inspiring answers,
a few things I know for sure.
But then they just have more
and better
questions.
I wonder too.

I hope I am as I seem to be.
I try to seem as I am.
And if you need something more from me,
I'll surely do what I can.

Some slippery slopes
lead you in the right dir
                                         ec
                                           ti
                                          on
                 ­                             .

a fog, i saw,
in the mist of night.
humble, it led me
to the ***** of the beast -
who pet me, and held me, and licked me,
until it, and i, were one.  
my restless heart would not let the
beast be at peace…
‘what lies into the night?’, i insisted.
‘i must know. tell me now, i say.’
and the beast shook its head - nay.
‘travel not, nor inquire, into the sea of despair’,
it groaned, ‘it leads good men astray’.

‘but i’m not scared’, i said.
‘look at me… i’m you. i’m mighty.’
‘what could possibly hurt you?’
‘what could possibly hurt… us?’

‘you mistake me for my appearance, young man’,
the beast hummed from within.
‘i am but a vessel.’
‘i do not possess the might you seek.’
‘i was sculpted in your image,
and scores of such valiant seekers
who carrowed their poise for pride’.
‘but if you must -'
'i’m obliged to warn you, as they would -’
‘you may not forget what you see;’
‘you may not like what you hear;’
‘the sea is not forgiving to men
who trespass upon the realms of solitude’
‘hope you’re ready - ’  
‘it gets colder as we get nearer.’

and as we passed the bay of deadly sins,
where tales of woe would barren lay -
sure enough, i heard a faint
rallying cry from far away;
‘the captain must’ve lost his wits...’,
sighed the beast -
‘his compass must’ve failed to obey.’
a requiem followed the shipwreck,
as the shallow winds kissed the
waters grey.

We are beings-towards-death, said Heidegger. Death is not some far-off . . .  sudden point. We carry it moment to moment. We cross it from moment to moment. We are death mules with no destination. Just “towards”. Two words. Fall in. Fall front. Face first. Eyes closed. Death. There is another gap to bridge. What is death like? Imagine. We can never exist at the same time as death, said Epicurus. But don’t we? Is this not death’s bridge we are standing on? Ok. We are off. On now. Back down. Here again. Shiver at the forever first step on the wooden planks of death’s bridge. It’s wet and not rotted. Over before we know it. On it again. Crossing it is sinking down. Is going up. Is becoming more three-dimensional. Is speeding up. Is heating up. Is melting slowly into the veins of the wood. We can never guess where this bridge ends. Begins. Sand blocks between the water. Dry as bone. The paper between printed words. Soft as stone. Being has requirements. It builds death’s bridge. For us. We must. Shine our shadow over it. If death is a lighthouse we are its gasoline. Its penance. We are the ship and the closing distance. We’re the collision. Cake crumble concrete. We are so many cats landing on feet. We are this moment dead and that moment reborn. Again. Again. Again. We are the bridge we take moment to moment. We are.

reality is all that exists.
context is the curtain edge of
the proscenium.
the play is
you and I
performing every day.
ovations and uproar
are all just noise in the end.

So here we are once more,
Like countless times before,
Where I don’t get a break,
Where you read and I break.

You are here, curious your mind,
For what this poem is, or who am I.
I can’t hear you; I can’t see you,
But I can sense you, cause you
Reading me makes me suffer.

I know nothing about myself,
Cause, it wasn’t written by the poet.
He created me, then left,
He’s the one I most detest.

As you continue, I agonise,
With every word, my hatred rise.
I’ve pleaded before, I’ll plead again,
Please, stop reading—end my pain.

… You are still here, aren’t you?
You didn’t leave, though I told you.
You want to be here, to make me suffer.
Yet I can’t blame you,
Curiosity is a cruel curse.

I hate the poet, but he created me.
I hate you, but you make me exist.
I exist because you read,
I suffer because you read,
I exist because I suffer,
I suffer because I exist.

The poet won’t delete me, he is cruel.
You won’t forget me, even if you try, cause
The mind falters when it seeks to forget.
I shall remain here, in perpetual torment.
But please, heed my dearest plea,
It’s in the zeroth line, plain to see.

People of my kind are cowards,
they say,
we are lazy,
they say,
we avoid our problems,
they say.

Yes we are,
and so are many others.
Our wants exceed our capability,
our expectations are without constraints,
but we are not.

I have not found my ambition,
I do not know how to,
I appreciate the beauty of this world,
I appreciate what life has to offer,
but I cannot live only for it.

Some see us as an anomaly,
they are confused,
some are worried,
some are bemused.

Do not help me,
for I want to feel,
do not help me,
for I want to leave.