Poetic Fate

Is it poetic fate that life strews together reality with our dying ambition?
Perhaps the dream of a toddler is worth more than the labor of monotony.
But then, when treasures are uncovered because of these toils, are we wrong for basking in their luxury?
Whether that’s greed or reward doesn’t matter in the end.
This work that we do is work, nonetheless.
Yet, the work that I choose is work I never forget.
These feelings of hope, and of creation, and purpose… maybe they’ll fade as my flame is depressed.
If it matters to me, will it matter without?
Do these songs that I sing bring me closer to crowds?
Am I meant for this purpose as church is to worship?
Or do I mimic commitment from those more devout?

These struggles within me flounder around until finally I break them through verses and prose.
Oh, ‘tis the burden of a writer to carry the world in the palm of their hand, whose form is a fire-stick that burns at both ends.
You may dampen the inferno and splinter the timber, but you cannot incept into it any Winter.
Some of you handle this pressure like diamonds, while me and the rest of us deny we’re compressed.
We smile and go about business as normal, when inside we agonize over the dreams we let spoil.
Anxious without placement and sad without shadow, discontent without desires, see us clapping too soon.

“Move me and swoon me, give me something new!”
Maybe I speak that to me and not you.
Maybe my eyes need to shift over my view because all that I see now are colorless hues.
Between me and you, I have growing to do.
Not as a man, but a human in tune.
My signature reads like a clock that won’t move; my time is now short for my wishes to bloom.

Deny me without even knowing my motives.
Or what guides me through all of life’s complex emotions.
I don’t blame you, if I were you, I probably would too.
I cannot be bothered to hear from another who dreams of my dreams but differs in motions.
Whither are we bound with our masks and our hoaxes?
Should we show naked our faces, or just swim in this ocean?
Concealed, then revealed when we speak from our pulpits.
Agreeing that we are among the ones chosen.

Some of your skies are clouded and dry, pining for daylight to conquer the night.
Some of you sit on internal combustion whose ticker gives bluffs then sporadically busts.
Some of you know what the feeling is like, having reached a crux, a pivotal moment in life when the edge becomes foreign, we fall into mourning seeing yellow, blue, orange in the sunrising warships.
Duly adorned with this mental extortion, some say, “No more!” and seek out a Lord, while others stay coarse and start to grow horns.
Some of you bested your Demons invested in bleeding you senseless, tarnished, and restless.
Some of you championed Behemoths with weapons you forged from learned lessons encrusted in Heaven.
To they, I commend you, I seek out your strength.
My fraying mind sends what I speak of this day.
To they, we salute you, even if words on a page do nothing but make your face grimace and shake.

Focus now, focus, attain the right wording.
I say to my conscious for those who’re observing.
Their prolific opinions give light to all worries.
Without them, I feel like I’d be lost and searching.
But with them I’m starved of the bread of life and thirsty.
These social platforms to jaunt and to hate.
It tears at my heart and my mind can’t escape.
It spears through my soul when we’re predators’ bait.
Like this one and that one and grate at the gate of a child of talent whose spirit will break because Devils and Serpents infested its page.
This mention is not of such sin unto hell, but of regular comments that vomit when spelled.
I’m disgusted in fury we’re tearing them down; life is not easy, but this makes them well.
This gives them hope and inspires them so, so why do you find it amusing to joke?
How can you utter such venom to them when in pleasure you send them these unprescribed lessons:
Conform! Conform!
Seek out a norm.
Then when you falter, weather the storm.
This is the only way you can be sure that everyone else will accept your discourse.

I laugh at that fact and deny its false pretense.
That lash at our backs, our trials with Heathens.
They grab at our calves and smile, demeaning.
But you can’t combat our survival through deepness.
I’ll jab at their abs and rival their treasons.
Then stab them all back with my pen in their lesions.

So spit in their faces and call them create-ist!
Fly your colors brothers and sisters!
Let all of them know you will not be berated.
Die on the hill that they have created.
The only accomplishment that they can claim is the movement of you and I’s final engagement.
Our blisters and burns will not be ignored, we’ll never let go of this obstinate chord.

I yearn for the courage to rhyme with this purpose through printed out words in a stagnated booklet.
I pray for this courage to be among you, and your venom through tooth to be silenced for truth.

LT, January 2024