A Masculine Perspection

Your feminine enthralls me,

Draws me;

My masculine sees you as beauty pure,

Incapable of seeing anything else,

And why would it try?

What does it want, you ask?

And quite right,

For trouble often follows it closely,

I will tell you what this accursed says to me:

Liberate your eyes,

Let them caress her every dimension,

Envelope her in your arms,

Warmth, worldly and deep;

Ignite a fire so powerful,

She will want to fight for her world,

With a fierceness that slows time,

A light that can and will shine,

Brighter, hotter, and longer than yours.

Let her be the architect and you the builder,

And so the designs would be so grand.

It says to me:

With every glance,

You will understand better why it is,

You’re drawn and fixated,

Incapable of seeing anything less than a goddess,

Cursed nonetheless,

A curse that the masculine seeks,

To unravel,

To turn from chains and thorns,

Into sustenance and warmth,

Continuity and life,

Tenderness and sensuality.

 

 

 

 

Why, failed?

Look at me,

My dear friend,

Before you ask,

Make careful your observation,

Of what presents itself so obviously;

And obliviously,

My unriddling has its limits.

What do you call,

Someone who is doomed from the start?

A poet whose pen beats?

With ink bright red?

Who can only share his lived esotericities,

In phrase-twists and wordly ideas?

Language already half-cloaked,

Experiences always slightly out of reach?

But most outrageously laughable,

He still wants to share his broken prose,

A worldly venture,

My dear friend,

I am the failed poet.

 

 

 

Working Peace

Breathe,
slow and deep,
It is this that soothes.
Compose,
your self,
It is this that readies.
Endure and accommodate,
You must,
It is this that allows its existence.
Focus,
a warning if you don’t;
if you dare an act of self-relevance
it may disturb your focus,
Focus
Indeed and well,
but you will be weary
if not wary,
It is this that takes away what can’t be returned.

Only Will

I gave up, friend
It’s a long story
But I gave up
The worst part of it is
Losing the spring in my step
Losing the fun in my heart.
Sparking joy out of nothingness,
I don’t have that anymore

I wish it were a spell
It’s a long story
The story is irrelevant

Now all I have left is will
I can will myself to live
To run with the rats!

I can will myself to forget
The story, reason
More at ease with the inevitable
Everyday complicity

But will alone leaves one hollow
Like an empty husk
I know what it is I lost
I cannot will it
Will is all I have

Originally written in early 2014