How exquisite it is,
Awaking day to day,
With many bills to pay,
Not a second to lay,
And many passersby,
Come and go my way.

What happened to Spring?
The cold, Winter chill,
Bothersome and bold,
Prolonging sunshine in May,
And a hopeful bloom of flowers,
Early on a Summer’s day.

No longer do I have the eye,
The once vibrant palette,
Has faded to shades of gray,
That vision of what could be,
Has drifted towards the wild cards that I play,
Merry and chipper, not ever,
Not today.

What keeps me at bay,
As my passion for trying becomes fray,
Is the internal defeat from external way,
Way of the ****** that seems to slay,
Every bit of purity in my heart that lay,
Formulating a misery that is here to stay.

All I aim for is to sleep,
That fine sleep on that lonely, inevitable day,
Existing and not existing, I’m sorry to say,
Is the only relief I feel as I hope and pray,
For God to bring me peace,
After a lifetime of disarray.

Mind molded like a block of clay,
Clay that never hardens,
Only my heart hardens like clay,
Youthful spirit and innocently gay,
Is a treasured philosophy,
I strive to regain some day.

The size of the world, on my shoulders that weigh,
Far from purpose and fulfillment I seem to stray,
Happiness is chosen, but not encouraged by they,
He or she of whom that continue to outlay,
My fragile, decaying soul,
I’m not okay.

What a time capsules mission was,
was ours as well, as our lives,
measured going in,
mind state measured going out, measured coming back,
once we opened your will to wonder what we say the mission is, was it…
When
measured growing old, mentally augmented since the laying on of hands.

Some body believed, they burned all the crutches and wheel chairs,
we all heard the stories of those strangers healed and walked away,

by and by, we grow a knowing kind of religious net, we import miracles,
we make words come to self fulfilling prophetical perfect sense, until,

the incompetence of a particular kind of literalist, literature as real lessons,
learned on levels deeper than the silver screen can command,
as one reads Psalm 15 and the parable of the talents with the same angel.
hide, and watch, words,
live in tiny bubbles, times and seasons take scale,
powers of ten,
and then again a billion times a second
in four billion breaths in
and four billion breaths out, all in cadence, mortal coil chorus of average.

We the people, current idiom,
we the earthling sapient word and number users;

Brainstorms tickle our will to undermine liars, calling life impossible
to enjoy as much as many nobodies do.
Or did before my grave was opened.

Over half a hundred years
and still I journey on.
At times I'm left to wonder
Where all the years have gone.

Memories that hold the proof
that this life was really mine.
Reflecting as I sometimes do
was it fate or predestined line?

Did I make real choices
that took me down this path?
Or did some cosmic scheme
shape every tear and laugh?

Is all I am and all I've been
of unique and individual shape?
Or was I made to be like this
taking part in manufactured jape?

If some hand does guide it
and I be but actor in some play,
What point in this life I have,
for it to be played out this way?

Of course there is no answer
that I can ever be sure to know.
So I just blindly journey on
to wherever this line might go.

Random course or predefined
my day to day follows every bend.
And over half a hundred years,
I am so much nearer to its end.

Oh the things that my eyes have seen,
the many places walked I have been.

Upon peak and trough did I roam,
rarely knowing a place called home.

So many turnings along my way,
passing on through to seldom stay.

Staying as long as life allowed,
more times alone than in a crowd.

Beautiful faces that came and went,
both good and evil sometimes sent.

With words sometime of the softest kind,
echoing shrill calls yet within my mind.

Words once soft now turned to stone,
where faces vanish until left alone.

Upon road so full of twist and turn,
until a heart can no longer yearn.

Corners met that were never turned,
unseen paths that were never learned.

Future's short path left to travel on,
in time memory fades and it too is gone.

Things I was and all that I saw,
gone forever through the closing door.

How long then be there just a trace,
that my soul and I ever saw this place.

To dust and particles we all will decay,
those once met too will just fade away.

Until even memories of all are no more,
of a life full lived that no one even saw.

Im deep in the throws of finding myself
Caught in the undertow
Tumbling under the surface
After a wave pushes me down
I cant see what direction is up
And what is down
Theres pressure from all sides
Pushing and pulling
Like children in masks
Waiting for you to choose them
Who am I without a clear path?
Who was I born to be?
Does it even matter?
Thoughts jumble and
Twist into knots
Its impossible to untangle
The truth
But they say the truth will set you free
Am I forever to be
A prisoner of my own indecision?
Of my own lack of insight
Into who i am?
Because it is scary,
Getting lost in the current,
And when I can finally come up for air
I hope it tastes sweeter
Than I remember

Cobwebs in my eyes;
how to see the world- old and dusty
My love is bit rusty, to even attempt
to steal a heart- a metal mouth speaking,
I spoke of how it felt to be made of gold,
well at least in the eyes of calling something mine

But yes I dug those many trenches,
and stuck a pole that stood as a reminder to it all
And I eventually gained the skill to write out what's
on my mind in secret- a constant mental note

In a distance so far away from myself,
striking a deal with the covers over my heart
A wet blanket; crying under the fabric
of it, to hide away those many tears from the world
I must have been a rose; well at least once before,
but sometimes the roses are still trying to find themselves,
a meaning, an identity, a cause, and a reason to grow

Tell me if you've ever felt like a beautiful flower,
though none of their eyes seem to see such beauty
In an unclear sight; overlooked by those you love,
                  -a story of all the world' blurry flowers

It may be that
the purpose,
Is not written into
the program.