fiction and its discontents

those little lenses flicker,
as if they’re in a dream.

the heart, it races quicker,
caught up in the scheme.

you hear him… even snicker,
at humor never seen.

the common-man points his finger,
at black ink upon a page.

he escapes his life to linger,
on some fantastic stage.

immortal is the bringer,
who manages to assuage…

the discontented,
with his fiction.

walking away

As I peer into your eyes
Full of dismal, dark, suprise

I wonder what road you’ve walked
To what odd men you’ve surely talked

I contemplate just how you came to be
A person so much worse than me

Set in stone by some chance combination?
Determined by adolescent recreation?

Whom to blame for what you are?
By what fate you’ve come so far?

To cross my path and make me see
Just how miserable a life can be

I stare into your abyss of a soul
Grab my walking stick and off I go

Each step widens the gap between
What I can see and what I have seen

Some place down the road I may recall
You weren’t really so bad after all

all lie

tossing, turning; in my head
pleasant visions quickly fled

tattered dreams began to creep
i could scarcely think of sleep

i looked about and was not alone
everywhere lie a restless drone

pain escaped in troubled breathes
dismantled wills must acquiesce

told to work and to procreate
distempered men we incarcerate

fear subversion, but not of self
distraction successful, ideal of wealth

failure impossible, self medication
easier to swallow the external delegation

lie still and they will lie too
it’s what society requires all do

eyes closed for restless slumber
just until they call my number