Rubbish Made of Gold

I can not work. I can not sleep. I can not play or read.
A weight is clinging to my throat, and somewhere I do bleed.
My blood is thick. My flesh is raw. My eyes are blind and dry.
A weariness has taken me and tossed me to the sky.
Heavenward I tumble. Hellward now I fall.
Thrown about by thunder. A gale to a rag doll.

I will not move. I will not rise. I will not dance or sing.
I can not even from this bed begin to take my wing.
I lay here still. I lay here yet. I lay and am unmoved.
I will not ever rise again until I am improved.
Skyward am I tossed. Earthward I am pulled.
Lit up by this lightning, like rubbish made of gold.

I have no peace. I have no grace. I have and have no fill.
This jewelry should adorn me so; instead I’m soaked in swill.
These rusted bits. This shattered gem. These flakes of gold of fools.
This pile, garbage, worthless junk, comprised of broken tools.
Air around me rushes. Earth evades my touch.
Pelted by these rain clouds I suffer nothing much.


Thoughts Thought

How immature to write my thoughts;
To write so you could read.
As if it mattered what I thought,
Or spilled this ink to bleed.
Who in this world will read these thoughts
And think they glad to’ve done?
As if I published this one thought
To shine light like the sun.

Yet here I write, and here I think,
And here I play and pun.
But what of that? Who doesn’t think?
Who of thoughts has none?
So this be it, I say, me thinks,
Because it is a seed.
A thought a greater mind sure thinks
Should not be given heed.


The Hours of the Day

What to do with empty days so full of empty thoughts?
The world in which a weary haze hangs limply as it rots.
And so much more have I to do, yet nothing is now done.
How I wish to be with you, to see the shining sun.
But now today is cold and chill with vague misgivings here.
The warmth of touch I wait for still, but wait with partial fear.
“Afraid of what?” I ask myself, but I do not respond.
It’s like that book upon the shelf unread, so I despond.
I hear again the haunting voice of one so distant, loved.
But here I’ve found so little choice, from her I feel I’m shoved.

Oh could it be that apathy has finally found me?
Or is true that I love you, but knew not what to do?

This wasted time crawls at my feet, refusing to go on.
And yet tomorrow will retreat before the coming dawn.
And what of that? What will I do, so weary as I’ll be?
So lazy, fat and long passed new—my soul inside of me.
It mocks me as it haunts me so, the hours of the day.
The value of a moment. Woe, for I delay.
I long for things that I have seen so long ago by now.
But who will show me everything? And then I query, “How?”
There is no need to end these lines to mesh with scheduled time.
But if continue symbol, signs, they’ll cease then to be mine.