"i love you,"
i mumble,
promising him.

what i don't utter are the words

i love you so much i really should be leaving
but i won't
because i can't hurt you
not in that way
not ever like that

// --------''_//
//-----------//''''''//
//-----''''¡_~~~····¡
                         //~~~~//
               //  ''''//
     X''''
(you are here)

we are on a switchback trail
going nowhere? hear this tale
this is a tragic tearful vale
there will be great storms and hail
you may stumble upon shale
but in the end you can prevail

i don't pretend to be a seer
but i won't give you a *** steer
ask any seasoned mountaineer
climbing K2 it's a bear
you need to know
the way that's clear
or you'll be cryin' in your beer

the switchback trail may be slow
you'll be turning to and fro
but to get high you must start low
don't resist! go with the flow!

you have a backpack. yes, it's true
with things that we will all acrue
if you have weights you may be blue
shuffling off the burdened hew
you can find a way that's new!

some will try to climb straight up
they may find a bitter cup
the fall is greater from the top
too fast, the fall will never stop
'til you hit bottom with a plop!

so let us find the narrow way
listen to what i have to say
you will find it if you pray
you'll have valleys come what may
the winds will make you
bend and sway
you may not find the peak today

but when you do... hip hip hooray!


soulsurvivor
(C) 6/22/2015

You do your best.

You fail.

You try again
hoping you
have learned
something,
intending
to do better.

The merciless
world does not
care for your
intentions.

Try, fail
and on it goes.

In this case
mere facts
are not
instructive.

What must a man
do to be at home
in the world?

  ~mce

Do not talk of the honey I pickled in your light bulbs

They do not have the map to help us reach The Alps

Just talk of the hungry flower growing on my lungs

At least they have the address to the hut on my palms

That’s drawn by the little girl who feasted on the chalks

The butterflies long ago planted along in their pulse.


Quick,  


Incinerate the 1800s post-mortem portraits

In black light's faked midnight perfumes

For you are my forlorn apostrophe high on gas

That might ask questions while telling us your tales

Or reluctantly whisper ****** things about Laqus

Who is wasting us to the wistful hell flowers.