"It slipped my mind
And for a time
I felt completely free

Oh what a troubled,
Silent, poor boy
A pawn into a queen

I laugh now
But later's not so easy
I've gotta stop,
The will is strong, but the flesh is weak
Guess that's it
I've made my bed, I'm lying in it"

Cut

You’ll never find me there

In all the familiar places

Now I sit

Under the moon

Glistening

Like I never have

Before

With stardust

And clarity

Not under

Your dark clothe

Smothered

By hope

By the thoughts

Of a future

Of what could be.

Farther, further, forward. I cut through.

The Dual Nature of Being

• Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.  – E.L. Doctorow

[B]ut I was still cursed with my duality of purpose; and as the first edge of my penitence wore off, the lower side of me, so long indulged, so recently chained down, began to growl for licence. Not that I dreamed of resuscitating Hyde; . . . no, it was in my own person that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience. . . .
[However,] this brief condescension to my evil finally destroyed the balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the fall seemed natural, like a return to the old days before I had made discovery. It was a fine . . . day. . . . I sat in the sun on a bench; the animal within me licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a little drowsed, promising subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to begin. After all, I reflected, I was like my neighbours; and then I smiled, comparing myself with other men, comparing my active goodwill with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. And at the very moment of that vainglorious thought, a qualm came over me, a horrid nausea and the most deadly shuddering. . . . I began to be aware of a change in the temper of my thoughts, a greater boldness, a contempt of danger, a solution of the bonds of obligation. I looked down; my clothes hung formlessly on my shrunken limbs; the hand that lay on my knee was corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde.

-DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE

-Robert Louis Stevenson

Wanton Soup

My horoscope said, “Nothing is gained by overstating your case today.” But how can I let my words not spill out of my mouth,

Held wide open by the universe flooding it with uncertainty and want.

“Endless rambling” like a car with a loose muffler; that’s me.

“Inflating your ego might backfire...” And three, two, one, “POP.”

These manifestations of the mind fulfill the pleasures of the night, but in the brightness of day all those images and moments of heart beats fall back into the cracks and remind us that we are unaware pawns

We are the unaware populous of destitute conditions. Seeking to capture a butterfly that will burst into fire in our closed hand.

We can’t find ourselves unless we stop looking.

We are like vapors touching a void.

We are like newts failing to evolve.

We are like Quasimodo ringing the bell for sanctuary just as the wrecking ball hits the tower.

So there I go,

overstating my case. Just like I do....

Just like they knew

I would.

After all, it is not the words that break us. It is the silence.