When In A State

I would if asked,

Suggest my world an easy one,

Though to the onlooker,

It may seem quite the opposite.

 

Depends upon the day,

I might quickly suggest,

Have I been, browbeaten again,

Or just left for dead, I’d want to guess.

 

I wish there might be a time,

Like the night I sat on the bench,

A curbside onlooker,

Watching the cars drift slowly past.

 

I remember there were so many,

None of which I probably knew,

Or if I did,

They’d certainly never agree to invest.

 

That quiet state of mind,

Where no one is generally allowed,

Except to surmise, pass judgment,

Thinking everything always the same.

 

The screams inside that patient,

Call to arms the proper time,

The explosive revelation sublime,

Defines our world a chaotic dream.

 

I would when in this frame of mind,

Wish the world around me blind,

For in the spotlight I feel exposed,

Wondered just how much my life is known.

 

And then I walk inside a crowded mall,

Mill about in a sea of eye contact,

When suddenly there appears before me,

Another human being, in a state of mind.

Faces On Demons

Oh the (dark) places we go,

if only Dr. Seuss could remedy all,

perhaps the quiet abyss might no longer,

contain the strength,

the grasp sometimes

inherent in my every step,

the outlook of my day.

 

I sometimes wonder the strength of my addictions,

are the reason I move slowly,

perhaps in reason the justification

of lost principle,

allows me to wallow in my

sad and lonely way.

 

I’ve made mistakes,

they are plain to see,

unless you wouldn’t know me,

then maybe,

I could walk around in circles,

seem,

a bit more mistake free.

 

It is an inherent trait in our society,

to judge the person on your left and right,

in order some would argue,

to set your own demons free,

or am I only speaking of me.

 

I sometimes reflect on a world

of alcohol and drugs,

oh the sweet nectar

of setting myself apart

from every

symbol I felt of hope and faith.

 

The gambling arm,

set in tone the rest of me,

and for the little time I’d known,

I would seek refuge there,

only to come to terms,

with another bottle of scotch,

with an endless pour.

 

There is something remarkably beautiful

about peace,

peace of mind,

a peace to build our hopes upon.

finding peace,

inside the miracle of time.

 

I look to find all the faces,

that disturb my sleep,

in the middle of the night,

left staring at a wall,

rather safe than closing my eyes,

to once again,

know,

in the middle of a dream,

would there be an onslaught …

faces on demons.

 

We might suppose,

they’ll always be there,

quiet reminders,

like skeletons with favorite postures,

we liken them all,

to our own sheltered storm,

inside an expression at the county fair,

won’t allow a soul,

to imagine any other pain,

otherwise.

 

Occasionally when walking alone,

I do,

I choose with earnest,

to put my own,

face on demons,

I suppose it may appear absurd,

but rather than in a crowd,

I can own my own expression,

no longer under a shroud.

The Obituary

I wonder how they felt it might read,

summing up their life,

in a nutshell,

passing through all of the bad times,

focus upon the good, the energy, the meaning,

the society we live in deems the necessary truths.

If we knew,

would we then change our mind,

if we could stand in the back of the church,

see the weeping eyes,

the countless expressions of confusion,

would we,

care.

 

I wonder what mine will say today,

as compared to years from now,

which would be more attractive,

the present reality

or that seeming legacy that time forgot,

only the pain did always remain,

a constant,

within even a moment of relief,

there would be the memory of how many times,

we might have,

he might have,

thought differently than to withstand

normalcy.

 

Oh the papers they might read,

and then in a week or two,

there his ashes would be spread.

When Yesterday

When we start to think about

our yesterdays,

we get scared, well some, me, suppose

the words need only be self-directed,

if validity

is the goal of my game.

 

I contemplate my day before notions,

those of consequence and reward,

I try to recall the best, when especially drawn

into the abyss of the mess.

 

A hundred years ago, my embellishment

landed me in places I couldn’t defend,

only wished I had found a way to mend

the indifference,

self-righteous patterns of wanting everything,

my way, my game, my gamble, my favorite

addiction.

 

I lost at every step, remembering when leaving

fearing skid row might be my home address

in six weeks or less,

less the confidence, less the support,

lest I drag my ass out of the gutter and realize

there is a life ahead.

 

However, there is always the readiness,

not choice by personal desire,

but the savior whomever that might be in our lives,

the one and only,

Grace,

the epitome of letting go,

realizing we cannot, and will never need to do this on our own,

alone.

 

Yet today, I do think about my yesterdays,

and wonder if I might ever step away,

to enjoy the beauty of this,

namaste.

 

Lost Generation

I Tried

I tried to understand,

while waves of despair

enveloped my mind,

tossing me, slapping me,

a ruthless affair.

~

My hands were locked

inside a pattern

everyone else excluded

me from knowledge,

that reality of pain.

~

When on occasion,

a happier time,

we could reflect upon

the insanity …

well such is rare.

~

From there in a day

the skies darkened,

a choking atmosphere,

when finally the burst,

pressure rattling walls.

~

Tears where I land

a thoughtful retrospect

when incarceration of

the mind …

becomes now eloquent.

~

Yet still a reminder

a constant twirl

insidious in nature

is the contempt …

a lack of dialogue.

~

So while the sun rose,

seasons created mood,

a warm reminder while

life shapes today …

speaks aloud contempt.

~

I tried to understand

just how deep my passion

for self destruction might

lend a future …

I suppose I might try again.