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Stricken
It all comes down to pain, this freakish pain
Shooting through my calves and feet.
I minister the medicament to myself.
I increase my thyroxine.
(My hypothyroid absolution.)
There must be a cataract of relief
Beyond this wall of nails
Into which I have been stricken.
I don't care if the deluge strikes me
Blind.
I just need relief, a balm to ease
This pins and needles pain,
This numbness that has no name,
This prelude to death.
A Plea for Tolerance
There is something about me that puts people off
That makes them acutely uncomfortable --
I don't know how to hide
I don't know how to hide
I'm too much myself
People condescend to try to help
To try to fix my infirmity --
They don't know how to help
They don't know how to help
To unglue me from myself
I've taken the bait
I've eaten the cheese
The mouse trap contains me
I don't want to flee --
Let me be |
The Power of Naught
I face the white space
With the lines locked in place --
Tensile wire set to pluck
The choicest morsel from my heart
As I hurl myself against the fence
Of impenetrableness.
Now you are the foe
The mirror I would set to smash --
If not to smash at least to rend
Apart my private parts
And reconfigure in more pleasing
Form.
I throw myself
Under the wheel of this juggernaut --
Risking all
Gaining naught.
The Spirit of Ulysses
No, we do not die.
We get sick, we get weak --
Too weak to hone our skills
With cutting-edge precision --
We seek out some measure of perfection --
Some increment of honor --
Is it honesty
Is it pride
That swirls the seas --
That will not appease --
At this breakneck pace
Wild with wind
Rhythm and froth --
There is no stopping for death |
