Many extant facts of power
   Shape the world. My vision can't 
Decipher them so I cower
   In ignorance of their plant.

I'm small and rather like it so;
   Having leisure to account
For little more than my own goals,
   Which are but a small amount.

But even a more modest dream
   Can flash nobly, with reason
To sharpen the edge of their scheme,
   And cleave unto cohesion.

I'm thankful to have even this,
   Call it dream or obsession:
All that proves that I exist
   Is love and its expression.

Love and goodwill and nothing else,
   May only these be my gifts;
May each of these old scars and welts
   Nurture something that uplifts.

And don't let me be fooled again,
   Taken in by rage and hate;
Don't let me sink to anger's den
   Where grim cancers replicate.

When I am blind, as I often
   Am, I rely on goodwill,
And other people's care softens
   My heart when I seek blood to spill.

Charity of good vibrations
   Is soothing and assuring.
The clarity of elation
   Flies upon a strength enduring. 

I live for the dream that is love,
   Which is how I choose to phrase
That all I'm ever thinking of
   Is a future smile to raise.

Which sounds like quite a paradox;
   I do, comparatively, 
Little in my life's narrow box.
   Is it lived narratively?

I have deeply seated instincts
   I don't know how to explain:
The crowds with anxious imprintings;
   Ones I love to entertain.

With only sight and impression,
   Fear of manifold judgments
Holds me in silent possession
   Deep in labrynthine dungeons.

I'm not the most outgoing but,
   To me, connection is key;
And if this helps in knowing what
   I am, then it has to be.

I believe the answer lies here—
   The flux of interaction:
Within impersonal voids, fear;
   Among friends, satisfaction.

A desire for image control?
   Perhaps, but even on stage
Where I can play my chirping role
   My fear becomes the mind's cage.

The answer must be expression.
   I'm petrified of being
And constantly fear confession;
   Is it me that they're seeing?

A portion of it's conviction;
   I know how I lived was wrong
Before, so now benediction
   Given helps me get along.

As if I have some gift to give.
   Before, when I didn't try,
I was empty, I couldn't live.
   I was nothing living a lie.

Perhaps it may seem insincere,
   But I try to give a care
For anyone; I'm only here
   Since others sought my repair.

I can't make myself care about
   Programs and propositions
Of politicking business scouts
   On lucre-centric missions.

There's no way I can give a damn
   About a word on a screen,
An entrepreneurial plan,
   Or hands that pull strings unseen.

Is there truth in their influence?
   Where human levels are breached
With their control over events,
   Does the human heart get reached?

These things that we cannot react
   To so much as must adapt
To; the fact of the power lacked
   Feeding the sense that we're trapped;

These things bring out the sullen child
   In me who'd rather not see
Problems which must be reconciled
   Of most sorrowful destiny.

Do perpetrators meet justice
   At the airy hands of prayers?
How the emotion of disgust
   Is reduced to useless stares!

I avert my face from horror
   But I never disbelieve
In the squalid state of quarters
   Where the poor are born to grieve. 

The poor who grieve to have been born,
   Generations dispossessed
By their inheritance and worn
   Down in their world without rest;

Who comforts them? It isn't me.
   I've yet to reach out really,
But this shows the necessity
   Of transmission ideally.

More real than the circumstances
   Shaping who they will become
Are the lives that surf this madness,
   More than just their total sum.

Though tinier than the systems
   Bounding and schematizing
Multitudes, the spirit listens
   To dreams worth realizing.

I'm accused of flowing idly:
   Wasting time, writing my verse
I'll never finish; It's widely
   True. It's living to rehearse.

But living goes on, as will I;
   And my writing is dreaming,
It serves as the power supply
   While here to search for meaning.

What will I offer history?
   Is that really my concern;
Rather, what could my ceiling be
   If I'm too caught up to learn?

When the ghost of complacence lays
   Upon me with fatuous scorn,
I pray to see how patience plays
   This game that seeks to suborn. 

Within me a feeling persists,
   We choose although we're destined;
When all of now seems artifice,
   A voice from within questions:

Will you give up the quest for truth?
   The substance hasn't truly changed;
The more we're the intrepid sleuth,
   The more existence seems strange. 

I'm always wondering if I
   Can reach up from where I am,
Can reach out though un-specialized,
   Join us in this interim.

Am I equipped for this desire;
   I'm a voice lacking a root,
As if autochthonously sired
   Not from the land but from the mute.

And what is it I want to prove,
   I existed and no more?
That even someone so removed
   Could meet with you at the core.

The proof that is within us all
   In moments without our skin,
Moments without our deeds; when small
   And great in congruence spin.

The universe which supersedes
   Individuality,
Which fades while entropy proceeds,
   Is the same as you and me.

All visions of grandeur or wants
   Are defined only by mind.
Most of the conditions we vaunt
   Are fantasies we've designed.

The organ analytical,
   Its power is its prison;
Conditioned into cyclical
   Schemes, sees what really isn't. 

The world-fondling senses receive 
   All that they possibly can;
They must in order to believe
   That survival is at hand.

Hoarding data into systems, 
   Humans structure feedback loops
Into variants of subsistence,
   Each with esoteric groups.

Many things we take for granted,
   But the question of belief
Persists when we feel our slanted
   Precepts flying like a thief.

Anything intellectual,
   Is it as real as we thought;
What If without contextual
   Excuses our maxims rot?

Does society disconnect
   Need from soul from consequence 
With abstractions of dismal sects'
   Masquerades of common sense?

Can a solo mind ever know
   Anything convincingly;
Assured beyond themself, bestow
   Their substance unflinchingly?

There's but one way I've ever felt
   Energy surpassing each
Limit I perceive as the belt
   Restraining emotion's reach.

It's love which passes between souls,
   Sparking across every void;
Love which finishes broken wholes
   With golden bliss undestroyed.

Love the compass I shall follow
   When one thousand different sights
Press me with their pills to swallow;
   Love will split the wrongs from rights.

I fell into a skeptic's trap.
   Agendas disillusioned
Me, and I've grown into the gap
   Of fact and ad's collusion. 

We live in the predication 
   Of mutable facts in our
Opinion-civilization,
   Re-interpreting each hour.

Now meta-interpersonal
   Dynamics superimpose,
Bleeding through by immersible
   Parasocial scenarios.

There is a cause to champion
   In each corner, no matter how
Obscure, mundane, or transient;
   Everything receives a vow.

And everything has gravity;
   Anything could pull one in,
And seem the ways things have to be:
   A prescriptive bulletin.

There's always been a million paths
   To fulfillment, so it's said;
So often they result in halves
   Dualistically misled.

An interpersonal event
   Superimposed on a thought,
Ego-transforming precedent
   Warps one's sight to see what's not.

The information age gives way
   To interpretation's stage,
Technology's deceptions sway
   With the counterfeiter's page.

What we perceive was never real,
   But until our time the spread
Of illusion skulked through the wheel
   Of abstractions in one's head.

Known only to the psychonauts 
   Of traditions who observe
And reify their very thoughts
   To discern their limits' curve.

Truth's nature in the waking world
   They knew we all wrongly sensed,
Though practicality unfurled
   In our lives narrowly fenced.

Fact's power remained paramount
   In basic society,
Opinions remained in the fount
   Of the mind's propriety.

Human consciousness expanded
   When we were forced to accept
Knowledge was no longer stranded
   By space and time, out of depth.

In our greater capacity
   We have extended belief
As awareness-necessity
   To keep up with each conceit.

Experience and truth divorce;
   Since we can't examine each
And every report, our recourse 
   Is revolutionized speech.

It's time to start a newer song,
   Though its kind was known before;
To turn away an erstwhile wrong,
   And to trash an empty score.

Time to set value in its place
   At the top with our goodwill,
Alongside patience, measured pace
   Framed in merit's matrix—skill.

I've given up great heights aspired
   To, or maybe never sought.
Right now there's but one thing required,
   Maybe it's my common plot;

I feel a life with others shared
   Is my path to happiness;
Will balance how I am impaired,
   For, approved of, I persist.

Sequestered from a common soul,
   Portraits etched in salt. Alone,
Aware of something less than whole
   While my faulty vision's clone.

We seek the individual
   In mandalic circumscripts,
Communion into integral
   Life-connected personships.

I called upon a desperate wish
   With a corpse's muted shriek.
Others' patience taught me to fish
   When my soul was much too weak.

If I could be someone who gives 
   Of myself with radiance,
With streaming love to feed what lives,
   How could life lack salience?

It's this which plagues us in our time,
   In a mode unfelt before:
Proximity of human minds
   Stretched through holographic doors.