Life’s just a riddle that none of us can answer
we’ve got some leads, we’ve got some clues.
Still the answer eats alive like a cancer,
and the treatment is something I’m like to refuse.

It was raining
as always in September.
They were complaining
about what; I don’t remember.
Reputation staining,
or maybe full dismember.
In need of some training
or my tempers need to be tempered.

It’s true you can never go back home,
being on your own doesn’t need to mean being alone.
You can gift the people silver, gold and chrome
and they’ll still ask you how to skin a bone.

Life’s just a puzzle that’s missing a piece;
you can try your hardest to fit in another,
or you can accept it and leave the picture incomplete,
and spend the rest of your time left to be frustrated and suffer.

It was a cold December,
some would say you could smell the ice.
I only seem to remember,
the nerve of those celebrating, bleedin’ Christ.
Start a fire but end up with embers
I think a spark or light would be nice.
So I go in search of vendors
but they’re charging far too high of a price.

The nightmare had a nightmare of its own
never learned to share even though it’s full grown.
You can gift people blankets and tapestries that you’ve sewn,
and they’ll still ask you how to skin a bone.

Life is like a flower
it blooms out until it drops.
Each day hour after hour,
until time’s ticking then stops.
For treasure I still scour
moving so fast my steps are hops,
and the floors filthy; needs a shower
but I think I’ve broken the brooms and mops.

It’s true you can never go back home,
the path is covered by weeds and stone,
and to each town and city you roam
there will be those who ask how to skin a bone.

My words don’t have arms big enough to hold these great and growing feelings.
They stay in my insides
Crowding out
Grinding down the subtleties
That reside near the edges in the used to be,
that cushiony soft berm.

It was comfortable in here once

The Room for Interpretation,

now lost,
now over-full,
balloon-bright and tumbling one voice and many into and out of supremacy.

These great and growing feelings
and my insufficient words
that fall from me one-by-one into place,
the thudding truth in basic blue.

Anxious.
Feeling insufficient.
Knowing I'm insufficient.
Wanting insufficiency.
Not quite sufficient.
Comparing and contrasting.
Contrasting.

Wanting acceptance to be my most authentic self.
What is my most authentic self?
Where do I find her?

Focusing on the next milestone.
Getting there and doing the same.
What do we meet at the milestone?
Will be happy will be content will be accepted will be winning,
at the next milestone.

How do you live in the present moment?
What is the present moment?

the mountains keep laughing,
and mocking me from afar.
they keep mocking the useless
attempts i make
to feel like i’m worth
to feel like i really am enough.

they keep pointing at me
telling me i’ll never be
like my little brothers’
violin;
or that i won’t ever be
as clever
as bright
as wit
as my big brother is.

they keep reminding me that
i won’t ever be
as sufficient
as i want to be.

I am minuscule.
Shame and remorse lie on my breath,
An ample bed.
Fear overcame me,
And thus I was deceived by my own self.
An abundance of cowardliness,
That lead to pain and suffering,
Continuing ever still.
My mind and will are weak,
But bound by love,
I hope to keep.
Fear,
That I will never be good enough.
Too many mistakes.
Too many slips and falls.
Too many cliches.
Too much dependency.
Too much weakness.
Too much reliance.
Too much regret.
Not enough affection.
Not enough truth.
Not enough surety, confidence.
Not enough time.
I fear,
That I will not grow fast enough.