To isolate is to be angry, alone,
But to be angry is too close to violence,
So why not be alone?

Alone is scary,
Alone is losing yourself,
Alone is impossible, but the feeling still there.

Alone and depression are interlinked,
A big word often misused as a funny joke,
That hurts me.
That a state so serious and personal is made into something so unserious.

Depression is a problem that feels impossible to fix,
you know its there,
It pops up from time to time, more often than not.
It eats away at your brain.
Feeding.

You don't know how to fix it,
or if you even can.
The help you need seems obsolete.
It seems impossible to actually follow through.

As in a state of loneliness it is easy to lose yourself.
That's what I found myself doing,
Losing myself.

I've been gone six months now.
I'm still lost.
I'm still looking.

But that feeling keeps on coming back.
More often now,
It's eating away at all of me.
I feel as though it will soon be finished.

But the monster is still there,
Looming, waiting for the next time to strike.

And I will be left,

All alone

I'm waiting for something that's not to come
Like waiting for the end of war
Like waiting for the end of greed
Like waiting for the end of corruption
Like waiting for the end of poverty
Like waiting for the end of pollution
Like waiting for the end of misery
Like waiting for the end of injustice
Like waiting for the end of this eternal cycle

In the hollow night where echoes sigh,  
Beneath the weight of a shrouded sky,  
Life flickers dim with a whispering ghost,  
Time’s fleeting kiss is a muted host.  

With each heartbeat, a sorrowful toll,  
As dreams disperse like the leaves that fall,  
The specter of death in the twilight's embrace,  
Hovers near in this desolate place.  

A dance of shadows on gravestones worn,  
Each moment cherished may turn to scorn;  
For life is but dust in the coldest breeze,  
A tale written down with forgotten pleas.  

We walk through valleys where echoes won't fade,  
Chasing lost hopes in the twilight shade.  
In darkness we linger, and what do we find?  
Only shadows that echo a heart left behind.

don’t believe in
divine intervention,
but all~so(uls)
don’t believe in the
accidents of coincidence

the Pandora Box gods eavesdrop on my mind,
looking to match the music to my mood,
(box to box, they cruelly smile)
Providentially Provisioning
me with inspirational food.
to collect and let
what’s brewing,
stop stewing,
and come out
in a you know what…

that old song,
500 Miles,
keeps
returning, unplanned,
auto play repeatedly
entirely accidentally,
(U believe that?)
my mind keeps on
knowing
I’m up~blowing,
there’s unfinished business
a-firing, a forest fire
of a 500 miles~s-acred blaze,
the firemen intuit ‘tis
of a kind,
it can’t be stoppered
until you and it,
self extinguish, (ex~sting-you~ish (1))
burn itself,
outside inwards,
reverse phoenix,
not sparks left,
until it’s dead

and the song,
and it’s power o’er me,
** ** **, is un~finished
busine business,
having fun with
my undoing

Lord, I’m Two,
both of us,
in words unspoken,
know that the/a fragmentation
grenade that is my brain,
dancing on the thinner
blackest
red line that asunders me,
twice, into two unequal halves,
is inflamed, infected, dejected

Both of us,
hear that dog whistle
loud blowing
one inch, a salty pinch,
or even
500 hundred miles,
makes no difference,
cause Lord, I’m two

reminding how far I am
from my owning
my very own
personal homeland security,
complete with self-sourced,
sovereign jagged glass pieces,
intended to jag, jog, tear, penetrate, break, annoy, till~this line……ends
,
the errata of this man’s
quasi, semi, repeating
mess-ups, that are
erratically invoking
benedictional confessionals,
of poems unwrit

those I dare not,
until and unlest,
you board a plane
to come to save me

Lord, I’m Disordered,
Lord, I’m Three,
a trinity of Myself & I & Me,
siblings who just
can’t along,
but can’t barely survive,
as separate human beings,
for one cord connects us,
keeps attached like on a bus,
though at a modest
moderating distance,
cause the fights are
frequent

Lord, I’m
(yeah yeah Four, say no more,
just rap it up son,
there’s work to be done!)

am I finished being,
an unfinished being,
will I ever make it to Five,
get home, even barely alive,
Lord, will I ever be One,
just like you,
put together,
a jigsaw complete,
a whiskey neat,
a whiskered gnat,
a graybeard bit
of fluff
with a wide smile of a
Cheshire Cat?

Lord,
give me sleep,
& poems born written
pre~complete,
so alls that required is to just hit
SEND,
a journey shelved,
ended before began,
a pieced together whole man,
give me rest,
eternal and blest,
make me an archaic kept,
in an archive slept,
and end this song,
with a fini
of
quietude & peace?


4:35AM
Sabbath Eve
- Av 12, 5784
- Aug. 16, 2024