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.
Published
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