Just a poem
I
And as I sit here upon the precipice
Of broodings and musings of a man without cause
I observe the familiar, effervescent surroundings
Of the lingering madness that must give me pause-
The familiar emptiness then enters my mind
And brings to tongue a bitter familiar clause
That attempts to tie down the fervent feelings
The post-traumatic relentless reelings
And the unimportant experiences of a life unlived
And so feverishly fashions them to flaccid retellings
That no amount of charisma could ready for selling
And so the itch rises again
To the surface of a realm I’ve no means to scratch
The idea burns in circles and it shouts out ringing
And this synesthesia of wanting clouds and consumes
The possibility of the truth that lies in the background room
Singing harmony to a harmful cacophony that has no meaning
II
How cruel is God that he should leave me to see
The shapeless entities of far off Brilliance
That maddeningly tickles the tongue and the end of a sentence
But rests at the tip, where it malingers and froths like the sea
On the pinnacle of Almosts, Regret’s hallowed dominion
Commanded by Wanting, the greatest of the Three
And cruel is a creator who drives me mad with something beautiful
Something that could make this life a desirable miracle
And steals it away, cultivating multitudes of hateful
Repercussions of a man who wanted no part
In dealings with higher beings or meaning in higher art
Who wanted no more than to be profoundly grateful
To a planet that would never be fully thankful
For the efforts of one who tried to justify the sickness of the world
As the means to an end with far better possibility
With balconies with better insights to the teeming of youth
And a museum of moving pictures to remember you
And to be contented with the gray scale masterpiece of mediocrity
III
But the good Lord saw fit to instill it in me
A perpetual yearning to become a stoic
To do something beautiful for the world and to know it
Only to forever fall short for lack of the means
And be supplied with a surplus of unreachable dreams
But I am no wise man, much less a poet
So now I lurk back into the crowd, faceless and gray
And write away into books, as no one cares who wrote it
And as I sit here upon the precipice
Of broodings and musings of a man without cause
I observe the familiar, effervescent surroundings
Of the lingering madness that must give me pause-
The familiar emptiness then enters my mind
And brings to tongue a bitter familiar clause
That attempts to tie down the fervent feelings
The post-traumatic relentless reelings
And the unimportant experiences of a life unlived
And so feverishly fashions them to flaccid retellings
That no amount of charisma could ready for selling
And so the itch rises again
To the surface of a realm I’ve no means to scratch
The idea burns in circles and it shouts out ringing
And this synesthesia of wanting clouds and consumes
The possibility of the truth that lies in the background room
Singing harmony to a harmful cacophony that has no meaning
II
How cruel is God that he should leave me to see
The shapeless entities of far off Brilliance
That maddeningly tickles the tongue and the end of a sentence
But rests at the tip, where it malingers and froths like the sea
On the pinnacle of Almosts, Regret’s hallowed dominion
Commanded by Wanting, the greatest of the Three
And cruel is a creator who drives me mad with something beautiful
Something that could make this life a desirable miracle
And steals it away, cultivating multitudes of hateful
Repercussions of a man who wanted no part
In dealings with higher beings or meaning in higher art
Who wanted no more than to be profoundly grateful
To a planet that would never be fully thankful
For the efforts of one who tried to justify the sickness of the world
As the means to an end with far better possibility
With balconies with better insights to the teeming of youth
And a museum of moving pictures to remember you
And to be contented with the gray scale masterpiece of mediocrity
III
But the good Lord saw fit to instill it in me
A perpetual yearning to become a stoic
To do something beautiful for the world and to know it
Only to forever fall short for lack of the means
And be supplied with a surplus of unreachable dreams
But I am no wise man, much less a poet
So now I lurk back into the crowd, faceless and gray
And write away into books, as no one cares who wrote it