The Pen and The Wind

You are just like,
Smoke in my lungs,
You satiate some urge within me,
And you satisfy so many cravings,
You take away the pain of life,
And fill my mind with a pleasurable haze.

In the back of my my mind I know,
Despite the pleasure you bring me,
You are terrible for my health,
And you could very well be the death of me,
And yet I can’t give you up,
Because you’re addicting,
And I genuinely love the sensation of you.

Why put on airs for myself?
Why lie about what we want to ourselves?
Isn’t all that we seek,
Someone who understands us?
Must we lie about those little things in life,
To distract us from that feeling,
That we are like Ulysses,
In that so few understand us,
And we feel a million miles away,
From those lot that do,
We gather dust and wait,
For that reader to come our way,
And some get so impatient,
That they obsess over their own word choice,
Until they get so wrapped up in their distraction,
They loose sight of what they wanted?

So why put on airs for yourself?
It’s a dangerous lie to get wrapped up in.

Sitting in a fleeting space,
While time and people pass through,
You’re on your way to anywhere,
When a chance encounter happens to you.

Something about them catches your eye,
And you try to stare discretely,
Trying to see everything about them,
Wondering if you should engage or flee.

You see a couple of things that inspire hope,
And you try to extrapolate a whole persona from it,
But then your fantasy crashes around you,
And your fear’s fire is soon lit.

You stand there cowering, unsure,
Not knowing if the risk outweighs the hope,
They could be what destroys your soul,
Or the one who makes you want to elope.

But before you can even decide,
Your chance encounter is done,
And you don’t know if your life is saved,
Or you just lost your Eden.

I walk down the streets in tattered rags,
They used to be a suit of finery,
But got so badly torn,
By the rocks that children throw at me.

A stone catches my head,
Bleeding, I carry on to my nowhere,
I’m so tired from all this blood loss,
I don’t know when my steps will end.

My steps have become strained,
And I have to fight through the shivers,
My body quakes from the cold,
It never knew a warm loving touch.

And bur oaks rot in the skyline,
As anything I hoped to know dies in the sky,
Any strength that I could hope to muster,
Suffocated from the damned dreams and expectations.

How could one survive in a horrid world,
When all the tears of forlorn dreams pools around you,
And when the water is deep enough to drown in,
Will I want to even try to swim?

I’ll hold my breath for so long,
Hoping I’m light enough to float,
But those children tie rocks to my feet,
So I’m becoming less and less buoyant.

But I’m so tired,
And so cold,
I don’t think I can do it any more,
And stillness is slowly setting in.

What if I’m just some sort of schizoid?
A figment of a deranged mind?
Am I just a perceptional fault?
Is my world that unkind?

I have no clear answer,
And little purpose for me to define,
Woe to the unclear schizoid,
Reality is far from mine.

Lovely love and lusty lust,
Have crossed your mind once I trust,
Imagine if you were to find,
Those two constantly in your mind,
I imagine you would go mad,
I know I did, but It’s hardly bad,
It can leaves with thoughts divine,
Your head can be a salacious shrine,
But without a release of love and lust,
You find it quite painful I trust,
And soon your mind might erode,
It’s gone on so long, I just might explode.

I curse the lack of maturity,
In this world surrounding me,
For one so wizened by pain of the world,
Seeks like companions in to keep life unfurled.
And not to mention the matters of love,
They take my heart and down my throat shove,
Because they know not how their own world’s spin,
Or how to see the beauty within, 
Yes these are the ones who adore me,
And I give so much love to those who see,
The beauty within my windswept mind,
And I know there’s more to them to find,
But alas those people are far away,
And awash in immaturity I must stay.

The ragdoll nature of us all,
Carelessly tossed about by fate,
Or so we feel,
Not knowing how it really is. 

That is, until that person,
Who changes so much of us,
And makes us all for the better,
Entangles us within their red strings,
And you find it so enthralling. 

And though these threads may be cut,
You must never feel alone because,
One will always remain between you two,
And over time, your strings become numerous,
And it is then you realize:

We are not ragdolls,
So carelessly tossed around,
But pulled by these threads of fate,
Into becoming who we are destined to be.