My Baby:
Don't be too quiet yet don't be too shrill,
Don't be too restless, but neither too still,
Please grow up hardy, yet soft to the touch,
Not seeking too little, nor asking too much.

Years later …

My Child:
Don't be precocious, yet don't be too shy,
The middle-sized apple of you father’s eye,
Don't be too forthright, nor keep to yourself,
Don't be too daring; but care for your health.

Years later …

My Son:
Don't aim too high, nor get stuck in a hole,
Nor hang back if offered an uninspired role,
Please don't take the high road or even the low,
The main road is best ... not too fast or too slow.

Years later …

My Epitaph:
Here lies a man, who knew how to conform,
Who never left harbour, for fear of a storm,
Avoiding the hot and the cold for lukewarm,
In loving, but not too loving, memory,
Of your only son ... Norm.

For an excessively passive person
I'm easily annoyed, easily appalled.
People are so stupid, vapid, mediocre
and you know its true so you try to
be deep and meaningful, dramatic
to justify how absolutely and inevitably
pathetic you are.

I don't want no mediocre love,
give me more of a 1 corinthians 13.
I need to know you'll draw nearer when heavy or small storms come,
not lose your sh*t, get scared of the thunder and leave.
See, love is a learning thing and we'll need water for it to grow,
we can't just plant our seed, walk away and expect it to grow on its own.
We've gotta clear the pathways, rewire and connect inside our domes, because without communication we'll both feel as if we're all alone.
But if forever can be seen within the roots, then no storm will ever be hard to get through.
I said it's all about forever, it's all about the roots.
If they're deep enough then there's no storm that will be too rough, and love will not be moved.
So give me that 1 corinthians 13 and we'll till the ground and build from a strong foundation.
Any other type just won't feel right, and will only be wasting our time.

I want to do something,
not for you,
something for me,
something gleaming with everlasting renown.

Throughout this fraction of life,
I have grazed this objective
like a lover's fingers
tracing the profound edge's
of the starving artist's spine;
I have tasted that moment of completion
but only in the smallest dose,
like that last drop
that collects around the bottle's rim.

I cannot say this life has been mediocre,
but I yearn for the exceptional.
I'm tired of seeing lesser fools
idolized by fools more talented than them.
I'm tired of the chorus,
let me write a new verse.

And though the greatest agony I bear
is that I may never reach that fabled nirvana,
I hold close the dreams
that make believers out of fools like me.

Lipstick and teeth marks
on my **** remind me that
there are still good days.

The way you laugh as
I coax you into *******,
the sun hanging low.

Hell is above me,
I'm the **** at the bottom
of the universe.

Half heartwarming smile,
half blood curdling charm, and
lack of self control.

Stillness. There is no fire causing havoc in the forest.
There is no floodwater to wash away the dirt it rests upon,
Screaming a song. The birds are mellow.
The squirrels are hiding. My back rests against a maple tree.
Imagination is free, but bound by peaceful things.
My thoughts can wander freely, but the woods are dull.
Can you sing me a song? My plots fall flat.
Falling... though an endless void. There is only black.
This mind is useless if my tales are null.
I already drowned the rabbit hole.
Silence. I already egged the nests,
And boulders keep the bears at rest.
They're sleeping. The woods are sleeping. The trees still standing,
And I'm still humming this same old tune.

My biggest fear may be being only mediocre.
I want to live while I'm alive.
I don't want to live on dreams and die empty without adventures and stories to share.

But my greatest fear could only be fear itself.
I don't know.
I've never known for I haven't lived yet.

They call me bohemian,*
a lost intellectual
hidden with no ambition

A happy go lucky,
who hops and hits
like a river flowing downhill

A philosophical dreamer
with subjective absolutions
unrealistic surreal expectations

They see my eccentric fashion
the chic grease of mismatch
A happenstance of my day's mood

My mind is indigenous
My soul is gender fluid
A vessel of masculinity and femininity

One day, it's a skirt and blouse
The next is a bow tie and shirt
The other is a blend of two

A maverick in a world alone
I felt it all my life, the lack of connection
No motions with the convectional

Their whispers cannot be heard
I am done with biting my nails
Let them pull their hair with their noise

Their chitter and chatter complaints
As I gaze and talk to the floor
*weary of their mediocre complaints