Impassioned phrase but soul without a soul
Streaking clever ink as waters yearn to flow
Owing only to oneself a tawdry toll
Writing a poem called avocado

Grandiloquence a symptom of the blight
The lack of sight, a cause made not to show
Inaction births a sea of songs so trite
Writing a poem called avocado

In trying for the soul we wish to be
Trying turns to trying endlessly

Despite the time spent healing in the dark
I’ll find that yes, time leaves some wounds unhealed
So the lies of comfort from caring friends
Run amok amongst the poison cure-alls

Yet completely as this piece lacks structure
The drink is but a way to forget all
Nothing more, though, was ever wanted for
As such, nothing more will ever be gained

There is no panacea for broken hearts
Time heals all wounds, so it goes, always
Another quick rap across the knuckles
Another blind evening spent so blinded

To reach out in all directions, yet still
There is no purchase where there is no strength
Not by exhaustion so profound, oh no
But mourning begot by mourning more

A senseless continuation of hope
Not hope for brightness, but for the darkness
That has so long been a comfort to me
Despite the bright lights at the edge of life

The path is not wicked or treacherous
The dangers are few and the risk is low
The rewards are plentiful and warming
The worst obstacle, the only ally

As some lights fade and others burn so bright
Pain gives way to pain, love yields to others
There is no solace to be found here, no
There is no solace in the cage you’ve made

Sometimes emotions have run too wild. Sometimes you’ve gone from a low place to a high place; you’ve taken an euphoric trip so quickly that your head spins.

Standing now in the dark with only a bit of cord to tether me to my love, Penelope, I look around and place myself outside the beauty of the night. A stranger looking in, perhaps, or an omniscient yet powerless observer. It’s this sort of experience where one leaves themselves behind and contemplates life from an outer consciousness. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense at all to you.

When I look back at the things I have felt, said, or written, I look down, back, or even up at someone who I am not. Between these great moments of clarity is the light. This light feels so bright when I can see so much more that it feels blinding. However, without this light I could not appreciate the darkness. My life progresses in a dreamlike fashion where I act on whims until something tears me so fully from myself that I have to look back and merely observe for a moment.

Recently, there’s a new sort of light that has come into my life. The same sort of murky, clouded light, but promising a more complete view, or at least a more complimentary one. It’s amusing to think that I might chase something that will bring me so much emotion yet again. A dear friend of mine played a song upon his guitar tonight and it riled my muse; not for poetry, but she stole me away to force me to look again at everything.

“Here we are at the beginning”, I say. “This is where it all starts. From here we are blind.”

My muse laughs and I resent her.

Use the eyes to look outside, view the curse,
Avoid hostile, selfish, and the perverse,
For they are out to kill the ones who stand,
Tall above the rest, heads above the sand.

Within the mind your hidden conscience dwells,
Seek it, lift it, delivered from the hells.

I find myself quite happy here,
A here so far from there,
But when old ghosts begin to near,
I find myself quite short of air.

Friends of old are foes reborn,
And so they have their place,
Ever hidden, scorn and thorn,
And yet they seem to know my face.

Aching hands push spinning blades,
That kick up dirt beneath the shade,
Reduce the world to itching mist,
I wipe my brow and breathe, sun-kissed.

Word after word appears only a tease,
Defiling meanings, shown only to please,
Not written with love, they pour down the page,
Stifle the poet and drip with disease.

Letters, oh letters, from such an old age,
Gracing the poet, transform him to sage,
Yet meaning so less when they lack proper feel,
They condemn his actions, becoming his cage.

This poet has learned not to write, but to kneel,
Received in the bosom of only things real.

Though loves break and away sway,
Past the block blockade, a bypath,
Let indecision end today.

Begin anew, new life assay,
Forget the old dark darkroom wrath,
For day daylight, there’s no delay.

Forget dead deadwood in the way,
Block out outright the barb and gath,
Let indecision end today.

Feel not now as praying prey,
Stand strong and tall, forestall warpath
For day daylight, there’s no delay.

Clear clearcut of grey decay,
The soil assoils for lattermath,
Let indecision end today,
For day daylight, there’s no delay.