Time To Write

Time to write,
after a shower and a bite.

But then again,
I should first clean my den.

Ok, that’s done.
I have to sit down, write a ton.

But wait,
I got time to masturbate.

Sorry for the TMI,
I really shouldn’t – I gotta write my “Life of Pi”.

Is that movie on Youtube?
I better be sure, I best not assume.

Enough dicking around.
Time to sit down.

I have my tea, I have the motivation.
I have to check my 6 New Notifications.

Is there no one who can see my plight?
When will I ever find time to write?

Wake Up

Wake up.
Do not miss the sunshine to escape harsh winds.
Weather the storm whether you like it or not.
You are stronger than ever,
think not of sleep again.  

Shape up,
or ship out,
as they say,
but ensure that the vessel is not leading astray.
You are the captain, the crew is afraid.
They will tell you the lifeboat is suicide,
a foolish man’s ride. 

Look alive,
feel dead.
Believe the jive,
drink the bread.

Question it,
get a hint. 

Fall asleep,

Wake Up.

If That Was Your Best

If that was your best,
your best won’t do.

I’ve drank the dirtiest waters,
seen the lowest trenches.
Been cast out by the sisters and daughters,
and cast out by the wenches.
But I found me a girl,
a woman,
a friend.
Found the other part of me,
my beginning and end.

If that was your best,
your best won’t do.

I’ve been hooked on the tar, the smoke, the booze, and the toke.
I’ve done things to get them that I’m ashamed to admit,
I’ve chosen my people, outside the offsale and an inside a familial joke.
I’ve spent life as a quitter, but just could not quit.
But from the ashtray I rose,
When no one cared or supposed,
I now see life from the other side,
I see myself in the red eyes of bar-flies.
As the Bud Light Gallery grabs their 7th can,
and gossips about what a loser I am.

If that was your best,
your best won’t do.

Depression is not an Instagram post
of Lana Del Ray smoking a Marlboro Red,
depression is dirty clothes, a bedroom beyond repair, and a stained bed.
It is when everyone gives up on you. You are lost.
Your best nearly best nearly bested me,
My life was tedious as an old joke,
My life took an arrow to the knee.
But I am still here,
and am here to stay.
I will survive, I will thrive,
I will do what they say is impossible,
Like Goldblum’s female dinosaurs, I will find a way.
Nothing can hold me back,
especially not the word, “can’t”.

If that was your best,
your best won’t do.

 

Seule

Yellow-stained walls,

empty halls.

 

Once filled with joy, and too bright for the eye

now is dull droning, lifeless and gray.

 

Could it have been me that pushed them all away?

No.

They are ravenous and vacuous,
thieves and peeves,
morons and pee-ons,
are riddled with addiction,
and full of disease.

They are reprobates
who masturbate
to whatever filth that they please.

They are no better than wild animals,
contorted and caged.
They have no higher purpose
than to drift and to age.

Please.

Just leave me alone,
for can you not see?
That everyone in this world is devoid of standards,
with the exception of me.

Drifts

Whispers of winter

Drift over pearl dunes and dry cheeks.

Under sun dogs and over black bears.

 

Sleeping giants.

 

Rushing into the windows of a smoking traveler.

 

Pitch black.

 

Screams and whistles and moans.

Subzero scowls and hot coffee night owls.

 

Protest- then drift away

To the cheeks of farmers, cursing the winds of this January day.

 

 

 

The Weight of The World

When a man chooses to stop learning

Is the day that he truly dies.

 

The herd of the mundane

Ridicules the fires of passion as insane.

 

And so the man suffocates it.
The embers smolder, crackle, and hiss.
He has destroyed comfort and direction.
He is now cold and blind.

“You did the right thing.”
The herd offers its petty assurance,
“At least now you’ll have health insurance.”

But it is still so dark,
The man lays to rest
He’s toiled and troubled today
for someone who doesn’t know his name.

With eyes closed, he smiles.
He sees
That roaring flame that used to be.