A sadness comes over me as I realize I am full of shit.
My poetic life of sycophantic self indulgence,
is a vision in summer reflections of the better part of me.
I don’t believe I deserve a partner
she is just a mythical creation I invent and take to my bed
The woman I make glances at becomes a distraction
She is no more real than the persona I try to represent in my ink
She is no more real than the bravado of a brave man I display with a fedora, a tie or a wink of the eye
I struggle with words
not to find them, because they are always floating near my nose like a speck of pollen
I will sneeze you this line of disbelief for my destiny and my dusty glass
I get confused when I try to make myself write something clever
something fresh, new, and in a direction of my choosing
maybe this is the toil of a poet and the peril I must relax and live through.
I shall become the creature of my indulgence
I wake to it
I debase myself to it
I love you becomes a belligerent indulgence
I am a failure at my best and a dreamer in the darkest hours
I keep believing
I keep a hope brewing
she kisses me and makes my religion false
The hair falling on the neckline
The legs,thighs, and hips that grip me tightly scare me
I talk of love as a forbidden sin as the feelings sink deep within
I must escape the world I know again
and write a tale of forgetfulness and kind late night whispers.