A tried and true notion,
like a rut in the road,
keeps me from going further.
Letting go is easier said then done.
The familiar ground holds comfort,
that sedates the weary traveller.
Fear of the unknown,
love for the familiar:
these notions kill more
then DRUGS and marriage.
Combined.
Let's leave the spies and shame
to their silly game,
by accepting the wounds and tender cuts,
given to us,
each other,
and ourselves.

A thousand cheeks to turn,
against a thousand angry fists.
A thousand times to forgive,
as the eye burns,
from a thousand gallons of salty tears,
wiped away and forgotten.

A strange thing happened yesterday,
I lost control of my emotions.
A dam, that had been building for years,
was unleashed. It had been built, stone by stone. Each a notion of self repression. The waters, torrid and raging, wiped clean the built up crust and false earth. The deep parts that had been suffocated, finally were free. Free to feel the warm sun. Free to bask in the fresh air. A rejuvenation of hope.

Sixteen again in my mind.
Sixteen again but I've grown too old.
Sixteen with an ego, and a chip
on the shoulder that cracks the veil
of "pretend I'm an adult."
Sixteen and I'm not in control.
Actions speak louder then words,
so why go back to write these
words down? Hoping to cure
What actions have not?
Sixteen and I'm not in control.
And getting the feeling that everyone
is pretending its all ok,
when maybe, it would be better
for all to allow ourselves to doubt.

On the slippery slope I stood, confronted by evil. In the valley below, smoke poured up, from a village in upheaval. We stood, opposite from one another, watching the chaos. He laughed, claiming it was my loss. I smiled, "It was a toss." The laugh faded. "After, all this time..." I baded. "Still, haven't learned, we're always traded?" One man dies, another is born. The tale is older then yorn. "So take it!" I say, "The satisfaction you seek. It's hollow. It's false. It's pitty and meek."

Emotions, gone. Only there to hold you back. Beauty, overrated. Artist with a demon, is a stereotype more common then a cold. If it's the person that makes the work, the work can never truly speak for itself. You may be famous now. Maybe remembered for generations. The knowledge may span empires. But, eventually, the artist becomes obscure,  and only then will the work truly matter. What will it say about us?

It's true. I don't know. And I am scared. Even the bravest in the light, have their fear of the dark.

The viscous glue lays in a glass. A jilt of the table knocks it over. Uncurling itself from the languid position, it begins the journey. Millimeting its way out, like some here to, unknown horrid flood of sap. A rather lame flood, that most elderly and morbidly obese could (if the battery on their, medicaid financed, Hover Round, did not give out) outrun. Lava, after cooling, reshapes the world. As though channeling it's long lost predecessor, the glue too,  comes to a sluggish halt and ruins the table.

"I will do it" said the heart.
Unfortunately, the brain was in control.
"Feed me" it began.
"Sugars and sweets,
Pussy and meats.
The more I get, the more I crave.
Til there's nothing to save."