Ice tipped grass.
Pointing out the sky.
branches naked.
Homeless man sleeps beneath them.
His bicycle propped up against him.
Dirty jacket, stained jeans, black beanie.
The wood underneath half rotten.
Morning keeps him sleeping.
Early walkers pass through.
Observe him by mistake.
Looking away not to meet eyes.
Incase the poor man is awake.
People noone want.
Where do they go?
How do we lift them up.
When they lie in a world of their own.
My sporadic mind is at it again.
I am told to focus, my heart is saying.
My heart knows my mind is straying.
Loving clarity shouldn't be a crime inside my psyche.
There could be creative guidelines instead I'm flighty.
But as soon as those ideas start to form.
It all just feels like i'm living the norm.
Deep down I reach for tools to sculpt me.
To write when winning not when sulking.
To narrow words when cutting.
And expand when bulking.
Live each day happily.
Is my sporadic mind helping me.
In gaining intellectual hypertrophy.
Or just obsessed with pandemonium.
With grand dreams we own and hold in.
We will save ourselves on the ferry.
It is getting ready to take off.
The laggards skip and speed up.
Trying to get close to the boarding ramp.
Some will dive into the drink.
Chasing the boat out beyond the straight.
Those people will swallow salt water and disappear,
beneath the low drippy waves.
The rest will wait on the shoreline.
As if to get the last little glance of the vessel vanishing.
Makeshifts shelters and desperate chanting.
For they didn't make it in time.
The last of the voices are silenced,
restless midnight murmurs.
They know to hush.
As things that can't be named roam the land.
Tracking us down by the demons in our heads.
The simple thing may not cure you
Perhaps it is the complex flavor you seek
Life a hundred choices valleys and peaks
Reflecting back into who you are
Dulling or lighting up your eyes
Pushing you forward or holding you back
You wish, you yearn, you seek, a straw to suck
That tiny drop of hope
The cold hits the face, the heat blasts it off
The shock lingers long until it stales
The feeling of success the feeling of failure
The feeling one must always do better
I get to school and the vegetables are rotting
It's a simple science experiment
Their big halls, stained walls, state owned sense of identity
Wooden desks and titles, room for smiles and brief programmed empathy
Rotten vegetables were distilled and converted into the corridor's aroma
The lines of hip young students trying to get their class schedules
But there are not enough subjects not enough classes at this school
The book is partially filled out so many empty pages
The town relies so heavily on their prized university
But the walls go unpainted and the floors uncleaned
Education with the smell of rotten vegetables
Emanating from the lunchroom
These grey days have a way of convincing.
Closing in on another go or stay.
Interrupting the work and play.
Dreary tarmac last night's refrain.
Solitary on a pathless mountain.
Sands flow out each visible grain.
Let go of the past, sour sense of blame.
Seriousness of life, no easy fancy game.
The grey way toward the grave.
Where destiny will have us lay.
You seek sacrifice and loyalty.
Ready to witness me self betray.
But I will keep trudging up this pathless mountain.
The steps echoing last night's dreary refrain.
The boys were what they were
Boisterious
Their toys all over the ground
Their behaviour unsafe, unsound
Life is happening before my eyes
Life is living and changing
I am concerned with the static
most pray for a short one
A toy comes flying past falling into the office
Not knowing themselves
mimicking and emulating over the decade
I am concerned with static
