Why I Write, Part x+123: Losing

Every minute I don't write, I'm chosing
Some other thing over ideas I'm losing.
There are some don't approve of the things in my head,
Think I should think, do other things instead.

Netflix carries X-Files, and I could watch a few,
Or go dancing or drinking, find something to do,
But every day, every minute in which I don't write
I'm at war with my nature and losing the fight.

The Feet

Their pain portends your soreness, their heat and sweating, thirst.

They say that what a person feels, the feet will feel it first,

But on the day I met you, I did not really leap,

and when you said “I'm leaving,” well, you didn't break my feet.

Wiles

You are a vision; you blur definition,

and I, I have a few more miles on me,

So it only figures you'd use wiles on me,

and you're not to blame.

You get by with what you have,

So that's why I show my brain,

and not my back to get me stabbed.

Brave-ish New World

In this brave-ish new world of assembly-line drones,

It's strange that years later, I could still reach your phone.

Our culture calls us to wear out and be replaced.

We must not get caught up, remember the faces,

But I will take time in replacing your heart.

I owe us both that, even though we're apart.

I'll control quality, since your foreman ain't there.

Some assembly-line products still say “handle with care.”

The Hypocritic Oath

Why must only doctors first do no harm?
Imagine a world where lawyers were so bound:
I suppose they would be rarely found,
But would it be so bad for poets' or preachers' business,
and, if so, what sort of world is this?
It's an oath I'd make, but wouldn't keep
For most harm done is unforeseen.

The Tao of Christianity

Perhaps destinations are cause of all starts,

and maybe the journey's the worthier part,

But to bask in earth's bounty, and all Heaven brings

Is not about parts; it's the whole of the thing.

Everything

I deserved everything I got from you,

The gifts and the gripes, and yes, that too,

The leavened beginning and the hell at the end,

The more than enough and the not-even-friends.

See, people and life come in odd little bits.

Since they're varied, imperfect, we deserve what we get.

You Push

You push against me as a brick wall,

Without will and sex and self,

Which I am not.

Though hard and unfeeling, I may be moved.

Be careful when you suggest a direction.

You want me away?

I suppose I could find someone else

To teach me to want that, too,

Who doesn't push, but pulls, seeks connection.

Why I Write, Part x+122: Paralysis by Analysis

Undiluted allegory may strain a reader's mind,

But not all readers wish you'd leave it all behind,

and also keep in mind while writing

That readers find action and dialog exciting

at different times for different reasons.

One shouldn't leave his prose unseasoned,

But humor and excitements' expense:

They relieve tension and suspense.

With such a balance to be struck,

It's no wonder would-be's would get stuck.

The Other Side of Suicide

When I didn't move to stop the first, my sad crusade was on.
The second, I gave reasons.  The third, I dragged along.
I played tricks on others, justified -- unless my quest was wrong.
I've always assumed the moral high ground was in life.
I'm a one-solution man in a world with others rife.
I guess there's only one thing I know certain, in the end --
That I lack the strong convictions of my heartbeat-challenged friend.

Why I Write, Part x+121: The Poet Is _______

The poet is an insufferable Whitmaniac, an optimist,
A moonbrained prat who wants to give the earth and stars a kiss.

The poet is a dark, depressed, and most oppressive soul
Whose self-esteem and mental health lie just out of control.

He writes only what he wants to, then writes it all again,.
He writes romantic missives to acquaintances and friends.
He builds taller-standing worlds with just a pen, letter by letter.
He writes what his friends wish they wrote, except it's even better.

She's a creature of balance.  She craves it, he serves it.
Though she may never so much as a achieve or deserve it.
As a poet, she bound to all of life, by duty.
She need not like it all the first time, but grin the second at its beauty.

A poet's made when readers take for wisdom what he puns.
They do it for those "right reasons" -- he does it just for fun.

My Personal World, Part 10: Out of Your Silence

Get up out of your silence.  Come out, follow me.
What's there to lose, besides your virginity
and other things you can't look for and find --
Your way, your words, the past, your place, your time, your peace of mind,
A truce between shyness and dancing, your inner saint and inner jerk,
A parallel universe where things actually work.
You never know what you're going to see
When the music's your tour guide and the music's in me.

To Be Liked

With it in mind that what you gain
Is twice, thrice harder to maintain --
What a horror to be widely liked,
Surrounded, social day and night.
Between happiness and instinct choose --
Abhorrent efforts, or surrender and lose?
Keep my popularity or personality?
I far from envy fame, celebrity.

Home Again

They say you can never go home again,
and maybe that's true,
If home is a place of a comfort for you,
But it depends,
If it's a place that conflict rends,
Where trials and truces seem to blend,
Where voice and freedom come to end,
A threshold that frightens off your friends,
Where you're always waking to defend,
Well then, I have to say, my friend,
You can go back any time.

Revisionist History

The long human use of revisionist history
Is more a "that figures" than some kind of mystery.
When reviewing our lives, the reviews come back mixed,
and the past, which is gone, can never be fixed,
But memories aren't.  They record.  They remain.
You can't straighten up timelines.  You can tidy your brain.
It's inaccurate, half fiction, deceptive -- just fine.
I like my past the way it was when it went down the second time.

Nostalgia Can

If we let it, Nostalgia can open up, swallow us,
and it should -- our pasts were always there, will always follow us,
and since there's no playing with time, re-writing past acts,
It's best to make the best of them after the fact,
But if we're always occupied by things already done
The memories we have stop us from finding new ones.

Sentence

A memory is a simple sentence,
A short reminder of some thing you knew,
That you think you still do.
A memory is a lengthy sentence,
The five-to-ten years you still remember
Her smell, her touch, her phone number.
A memory is a powerful pump.
It dredges up all the mire and muck
From when you were lost or struggling or stuck.
A memory is a deep well's pump.
It brings to the surface your path's clear, cool water.
It brings you back up to life as you remember who you are.