Attempt

I

Attempt after attempt is made to step away
from the strife I have created inside,
and the only realisation I can stumble upon
is that it is raining outside in the real world.
Blessed emancipation is stifled by the hours
spent grappling with shop chores and
shunting along stubborn people whose brief prosperity
has them believing they are entitled to more.
Fatigue sets in, then, and slows the mind,
killing the will for endeavour and progress,
and sucking dry my belief in hope and love,
the two shaky pillars that have come crashing
down around me, taking everything else with them.
The futility of earning to stand still is
beyond comprehension, while my twitching
fingers show a man bearing the brunt of the loss
he suffers when faced with the dreaded writer’s block.

II

The pen is my release, and the withdrawal
and resulting raggedness from my daily dosage
has dulled my expression and killed my spirit.
I pocket my hand to stop the nervous shaking
and to hide the questions trembling fingers bring,
but they bury with them some lessons harshly learned:
such as how reason must be sought and fought for
because it is not a divine right and never will be;
and how motivation must come from within
one’s soul and heart because when both become
battered, broken and bitter, apathy sets in;
and how talent is as talent was and will always wither
when subjected to the reality that a place on the
pedestal is not the destiny meant for everybody;
and, finally, how the only true person responsible
for chasing me into this cordoned-off piece of room
with no pen or paper is myself for not being the best I can be.

III

So, my name has reached few, yet more than some -
but isolation has limited me, with stories lost.
Having been so cavalier for so long in
gallivanting with words across the lives
of those known and unknown - carelessly
constructing thought as if it were gospel
gobbled up by strangers and loved ones -
the truth suddenly hits in supplementary fashion
that nobody cares what I have to say;
because all I have to say is about myself and my woes,
which have only ever been self-inflicted, with finger
pointed in denial at somebody else all the time.
With words I have walked farther than most men
without ever moving a step, but now I am stuck -
and with ambition, reason, drive and hope
all crushed in my pocket with this truth, I can only think
of how my youth has been pissed away at twenty-one.

Static

They ask for my plans
as they down their cans,
and cast a sidelong glance
at the better-looking man.

At the end of the end
without a single friend,
just garnered numbers
and faces out of trend.

But my fate lies away
from this dead place,
where I can howl to
heaven without constraint…

And live forever without complaint.

Now everybody else
seems so static,
and the night is lost
as I can’t crack it.
Though life sits still
time keeps ticking;
and the seconds die
as I keep clicking.

It is with a heavy heart
that we all must part,
but where is the sense
in looking back to the start?

I sigh through the door,
despair in every pore,
and I go in search of
the promise of more.

With hope in the new
and love in the few,
while the folly of our kind
adds to the queue…

The place I stranded myself for you.

Now everybody else
seems so static,
and the night is lost
as I can’t crack it.
Though life sits still
time keeps ticking;
and the seconds die
as I keep clicking.

And in being so selfish
I apologise,
but in being so selfish
I accept my guise.

My one true crime was
standing still.
My one true home was
my windowsill…

From where I would watch The World thrill.
But not anymore.

Now everybody else
seems so static,
and the night is gained
as at last I crack it.
Though life sits still
time keeps ticking;
but the seconds live
as I keep clicking.

The End of The End

And it is a glorious finale to a spell which
flew by with the grace of a sparrow,
but also with the short-lived speed
of a cheetah in the desert, finishing
in the inevitable solitude an oasis brings.

This is The End of The End,
a final farewell to the many
acquaintances made during the
all too brief three years spent
sharing our stress in confined rooms.

The crown of a plaza fails to signify
enough the crescendo to which we are
building, and to me the night feels
like any other, save only my attire -
a tuxedo that, for once, is not a t-shirt.

The night is lost like every other night,
with obsessions over minor fancies
taking over my mind’s eye, detracting
my attention from the true essence of
this night’s ultimate significance.

So now the futile fight begins
to avoid the descent into mediocrity,
with the pull of the truth and the loss
of the few who transcended that divide
combining to move me to a standstill.

And that realisation amalgamates with
sadness to well up inside me, with
my ribcage fighting hard to restrain
the screams of frustration as my eyes
lose their battle to withhold the tears.

Wasteland Wanderer

I never want to own a house,
Nor do I want a family to put in one;
I never want to buy a car,
Nor do I want to speed through the truth;
I never want to vote again,
Nor do I want to see either side win;
I never want to settle in one place,
Nor do I want to settle for every place;
I never want to become a negative statistic,
Nor do I want to become a positive statistic;
I never want to go to church,
Nor do I want to pray to a sadist God;
I never want to suffer like the old,
Nor do I want to pay like the young;
I never want to hear hypocrisy again,
Nor do I want to see it carelessly acted out;
I just want to be a wanderer
In this wasteland we call The World,
Piecing together the remnants of dreams
Broken from the blind chase before.