Full Tilt

 115 notes,

On how to tell the story of pain.

A year to gore the innards with abrupt malice

Funneled through a disease without cure.

2016, an impalement.

Breaking in the upright position

I festooned my misery into a manageable shape

That took me to shreds with impunity. 

What does it mean to be broken?

I will never know.

The grist is worth the ingestion of any hurdle

To earn the worth to carry on.

Words in their arrangement serve to protect nothing

Confusion cures ignorance, and that will do

Procurement, a word I adore

As it seeks to attach skill to understanding

Giving way to a comprehension, sublime.

Some stories are not worth understanding,

Certain levels of agony belong caged.

Secrecy is a precursor to composure,

When light requires forgiveness in its lifting.

I know a man that gets this game.

The level of what is at stake, 

The wisdom to keep his mouth shut

And the potency of his commitment to restraint.

Such animal mastery is also, bent for secrecy and containment.

It is often the understanding alone that can portion the scales 

To the equilibrium needed,

To lead a strong, stout life, worthy of respecting.

Enough hounds prowl without regard 

...for more than their 

Own hunger.

Pangs of which, once punctured

Care nothing for the kill.

And who cares to hear these musings,

Of lives well lived, and shoulders that never caved

These are words that form little meaning 

To none other than Self, who seldom pauses to wonder how 

That same self will evaluate and preside

Over the decades spent in well controlled demeanor.

I am leaning forward more and fascinating myself

With potentials that eek of action, and grease eager to spread

Would there come a time where the Now will crave more sprint?

No.

The time is Now. The Will is Present,

And the wisdom to know the difference is

Parading like Maximus in full tilt.