The veneer is decades thick
I am unaware of its exact origin
Sufficed to say that its inception was early,
Far too early for me to have known any better.
The events of life ensured layer upon layer of graduated tension
Would only grow in the decades to follow.
What does it mean to sit bewildered by my own lack of definition?
Does it only caution me further, into dark halls that wag a deafening warning?
In rubbing elbows with indifference, I am granted reprieve of my own criticisms.
In keeping the mandatory company of assholes, I chip away this bark more effectively
In acknowledging my own fleeting insecurities, weakness seeps out- to my own detriment.
Bumbling about in more darkness bodes the sickly skin of indecision, for purpose- renewed.
Writing in riddle echoes these carnivorous musings
Shedding skin this thick can surely, only come, with reincarnation.
But that is the folly of this negative beast
Draped around and throughout, my attractive potential.
Stuck in everything again; mud, loss, punishment.
Saving not a trace of what might relax and soften the mind.
Who am I?
Away from this grimy, self-loathing?
This wormhole of decayed resentment?
The way my condition has sliced itself in two;
Equal parts: water-tight/misshapen.
Never was there ever a judge so unfailing, as the way I bite my own back.
Even now, each line holds a war crime
A story sans elaboration, a legend-less map portraying unmarked defeat.
I'm calling out for more 'nothing'
In the hope that eventually, I will evoke an echo- returned
Gifting insight that exists nowhere
Beyond the intrepid tripping up of my own two feet.
Upon completion or four 'sixteen week' sets,
I'm traveling higher.
The hubbub of tactful, complimentary beings remains critically hushed
I'm expecting the downward spiral to unravel
Abbreviating any earned credit with compulsory criticism.
These quiet morning moments stretch ahead several years... as the high of my own dissent, dissipates.
When I'm sixty and the regret of unspent energy has long since left me
I'll be earning kinder lines that grace this face.
Hoping to console myself completely
Through the knowledge that all I've been doing in the name of preservation
Has been enough to evade regret and bitterness
Relying on memories made in times long gone.
I am unaware of its exact origin
Sufficed to say that its inception was early,
Far too early for me to have known any better.
The events of life ensured layer upon layer of graduated tension
Would only grow in the decades to follow.
What does it mean to sit bewildered by my own lack of definition?
Does it only caution me further, into dark halls that wag a deafening warning?
In rubbing elbows with indifference, I am granted reprieve of my own criticisms.
In keeping the mandatory company of assholes, I chip away this bark more effectively
In acknowledging my own fleeting insecurities, weakness seeps out- to my own detriment.
Bumbling about in more darkness bodes the sickly skin of indecision, for purpose- renewed.
Writing in riddle echoes these carnivorous musings
Shedding skin this thick can surely, only come, with reincarnation.
But that is the folly of this negative beast
Draped around and throughout, my attractive potential.
Stuck in everything again; mud, loss, punishment.
Saving not a trace of what might relax and soften the mind.
Who am I?
Away from this grimy, self-loathing?
This wormhole of decayed resentment?
The way my condition has sliced itself in two;
Equal parts: water-tight/misshapen.
Never was there ever a judge so unfailing, as the way I bite my own back.
Even now, each line holds a war crime
A story sans elaboration, a legend-less map portraying unmarked defeat.
I'm calling out for more 'nothing'
In the hope that eventually, I will evoke an echo- returned
Gifting insight that exists nowhere
Beyond the intrepid tripping up of my own two feet.
Upon completion or four 'sixteen week' sets,
I'm traveling higher.
The hubbub of tactful, complimentary beings remains critically hushed
I'm expecting the downward spiral to unravel
Abbreviating any earned credit with compulsory criticism.
These quiet morning moments stretch ahead several years... as the high of my own dissent, dissipates.
When I'm sixty and the regret of unspent energy has long since left me
I'll be earning kinder lines that grace this face.
Hoping to console myself completely
Through the knowledge that all I've been doing in the name of preservation
Has been enough to evade regret and bitterness
Relying on memories made in times long gone.
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