For reasons given, real or rash,
was yours an honest deed from you?
For having done now, will there be
regret to creep upon tomorrow’s view?
The freedom thus in truth pursued
can just as well be freedom to deceive;
for choices chosen, real or tale,
will either version bring good sleep?
One of those imperfect beauties in life: the truth is seemingly above us, and yet could be utterly irrelevant and worthless all the same.
When pressed for time, be sure
to push aggressively in kind:
the minutes only flows one way,
each hour lost an hour left behind.
When offered pause, be sure
to breathe amidst the calm;
you’ll long for boredom soon
in the torrents that’s to come.
These little obsessions, all so different, yet the same…but they keep me moving, so are they all so bad?
The height of smallest anthills
will tower over level ground,
and darkness, so encompassing,
recede where light is found;
A progress of the trifling sort
can seem superb to nothing,
but bronzes merely ease the mind
while stifling golden motivation.
The achievement trap is too real. I have to do better.
The more I am convinced
my next step forward, stumbling,
would see a breakthrough stride
to make the past three blunders,
so humbling as they were to pride,
worth all the soreness of defeat
within the frantic victory dance!
Lest I mistake the two again, however,
mishearing three steps for a fourth…
Alas a novice dancer’s not too rare;
No, not in this dance of life at all.
We have to learn somehow, right? For some things, I’m just a bit slower I guess.
We speak of knowledge as the greatest good,
the calming latte lightly iced awaiting
beneath umbrella of some outdoor café booth
as wind and cloudless skies are balanced;
And yet a needless knowledge sought now known
did not bring joy — no joy embracing good?
The last sip drank, a smallest recompense,
before rushed hands would close the finished book.
But if given the chance to remain in the dark, would I have rather been? Absolutely not. There was only one degree of freedom then.
I greet the manic merchant every night,
an offer, vice, a price so born of habit:
an hour less of sleep, an extra hour’s fight
until exhaustion claims the stubborn addict.
But always did he charged a service fee,
the minutes dulled in morning crashes,
that to enjoy an hour more each night
is to endure the daylight’s mental lapses.
Never mind the morning, my thoughts are dimming even now. “But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—It gives a lovely light!”
I read just now your self-selected truths,
a new adventure story to be told by you,
a theme, redemption, of a former past;
I also know that theme, too well in fact —
A footprint, ah! that former trace of me;
a hint of us, mistake now rest in memories.
Abandon though we must our habits, old,
to gather strength for a newfound journey.
“…born-again…unlearning from my…upbringing, ties, roots.” I suppose knowledge brings a certain peace, a consolation prize of a solemn sort. All the future’s best.
I see, reflected in that passing thought,
a reminiscing of a lover, friend, twice lost,
an ardent plea, just once is hard enough,
but faltered we the fallow steps of youth;
Suppose the wiser now we are for us,
engraved upon the hibernating memories,
yet stirred and borrowed daydreams would
in rest conceive a third attempt so lucidly.
As said, insanity is repeating the same actions and hoping for a different outcome. Something’s got to give.
Sweet rascal child born of time and hope,
how you can lift and drop me without care!
Yet what did I expect in such acquaintances,
the kindest patrons of our mortal fares —
For they, the couple, have long been there,
their charities to outlast my final breath,
and should I think our final meal was past,
I dine once more at their whim’s behest.
As the economists will tell us though, there’s no such thing as a free lunch…
In arms embraced and stress reprieved
did shoulders bearing world relaxed,
and weary breaths gave way to warmth
as fiery eyes embraced a comfort dark —
So great the longings of a worn-out heart,
graffiti-filled with haunting loves forsaken,
yet hopeful scars will fade and heal in time
between these arms to hold and wake in.
All yearnings bring disquiet to the heart, but some yearnings are vastly more preferable in kind than others. It’s time.