Let me feed you, they say
When they really want to sell
My teeth are barcodes
My bones are meals

Let me heal you, they say
Then they take yet more
Though Im not slowing down
(You can't when you're poor)

Let me show you self, they say
And pawn their own breath away
Enlightened in pure white light
Blue eyes of divine right

Let me educate you, they say
From the vacant room never left
Of fathers' touches never kept
And dog-eared pages of contempt

Let me, let me, let me
As if I am able to escape
Push me, push me, push me
As if its only my hand that shakes
Violently, violently, violently
In a regime ripe to break

It's about balance -
about choice.
It's about consideration, honest
exploration of options
(and having courage enough
to risk infractions).

It's about precision,
about tenacity -
the capacity for patience
and acceptance of perhaps
having to start afresh.

When my co-author is far away,
I don't know why,
I fall astray.
You should decry
Procrastination's deceit,
Which I try
But cannot defeat!

I drank the tap water
in the men's bathroom sink.
It tasted like gossip,
control, and politics.

It lingered too long in my throat—
like a happy pill made of
team buildings and dinners.

All I want is the door,
the tricycle,
and the ride home.

My house is a mess,
So is my mind and body,
I can’t live off stress.

A sip of melancholic Earl Grey rekindles emotion
Glancing out of my window at the great commotion
Birds whisper melodies that beckon my mind into security
But still, something feels awry, dampening such purity
I can tolerate great loss of things, but not of meaning
I am not a mere prop in someone else’s dreaming.
A life without depth, is a life without death.
“Life’s but a walking shadow”, says Macbeth.
The office is a concrete asylum, a prison for curiosity.
Glances of joy afloat an ocean of animosity.
I cannot bear all this, whilst those trees beckon me in.
Without attachment, I would be there in a whim.
But obligations borne of fear bind my feet.
I cannot cross this grey, sombre street.
Freedom waves at me from the other side.
I can only wave back from the depths inside.
If I voice my fears about this nihilistic abyss.
I will be a prop out of action, dropped and dismissed.
I still sit here with my tea, my soul in a tangle.
Do I bury these roots, leaving them to mangle?
Maybe these worries will pass away in the morning.
When I am back in work, and a new day is dawning.
Maybe I shall never act, and take this to my grave.
Or shall I reconquer my soul, become what is brave.
A man cannot hide from truth without his soul crumbling.
His mind shall return to it, despite its tumbling.
And here I am, on a Sunday evening, letting it fester.
Watching it mock me like the most honest jester.
And that is okay, for it reminds me that I am living.
Oh, beautiful Sunday, your honesty keeps on giving.