Most have a monotonous mountain of molasses,
And, I hear they’re returning in masses.
Always viscous and vicious to prevent one’s escape.
We’re all just pawns in their grand game.
To bind us, tantalize us, and break us repeatedly.
Lie, bribe, and shatter our fleeting sense of security.
To lull us into a slumber meant for us to lose our dreams,
And then wake up and wonder what we’re meant to be.
It comes in many forms, and it’s called by many names,
All of them referring to the same sordid pile of shame.

Try as we might to escape unscathed,
Only to be bound and beaten until nothing but a husk remains.
The molasses surrounds us, pummeling us into the ground.
As we cry for help, but there’s no one around.
For they’re dealing with their own malicious mount,
Gagging us with worries to drown out every sound.
We struggle, although muffled, we try to overcome,

But even if we win, the battle isn’t won.
When we defeat a mountain, another swiftly takes its place.
This new one could be worse, as it grabs you in a devouring embrace.
You’ll overcome it; it’s a given, as many have before you.
But these battles, rest assured, will take your will to see them through.
These monotonous mountains are tenacious and cruel,
The molasses, so viscous, an evil witch’s brew.
Don’t think it’s honey, it isn’t nearly as sweet,
And don’t have the audacity to accept defeat.
It won’t be easy, after all, it is a war,
But one you can win with your shield and sword.

So, when you see a monotonous mountain of molasses,
Take solace, knowing full well you have the tools to surpass it!

Always in the poem
there are no tears
between the line
but we will get the fear
and pretend that's fine.
We fall short
and say "ah"
to be the final word.
We must ****
the November creep
waiting until the end of the year
throwing the days
that make you depress
by the message
in a fortune cookie.
Maybe,
by hoping to feel present
in the short future
on the dream we have
will be the last wishes.
We are all in pain
waiting for time
to the monotonous sound of the clock
ticking on the wall.

Its as if we have become too lazy to even exist.

It’s just
Easier
To write about 
Objects
Because while most people
Are monotonous
Objects at least
Have variety.

The
          sometimes
          tremulous
glimpses of surprise,
I think
     what a book it would make.

I hear the late afternoon cheer
         the honest type
somewhere                                                          
                  lurking behind
                                old Sixth Avenue Road.
I suppose
it is not just a phenomenon of nature that goes instinctively on,
not the appalling detail of any large human scheme, eroded by schedules
But I accept it as one of the miracles.
(Which I never see anywhere else)