The future that remains for me is presumed short… par usual.
This one is not for small children.
The body and the memory of why… degrade in this complacent world.
It is a form of hell— limbo, stranded nowhere, unable to recall.
Or realize you’re reluctant, accounting the past as empty upon error.
And try to place now…
To vector off your origin ’cause you put your stake in the ground elsewhere.
That now fails at what the past could yield.
But the past is gone.
But try as you must…
To find a place of opportunity… but shallow opportunity at that, you find.
Fleeting moments, like sugar, the boosts of energy tire you faster.
And a tiring in dealing with your ineffable being to refine!
And try for results…
But results oft always off radar.
To make use of convention, but violate implied rules.
Too often you lose, and lose sleep for aimless, “creative” crud.
And try, while more unknowns enter the scene…
And the unknowns of before, now known, now taken stale or falling apart.
Or, in turn, possibly consistently weak…
Or maybe tapped-in-tapped-out— that you are in synch with a world of weakness.
And try, despite small-minded thoughts…
Little broekn lines, words swiftly assembled to justify fleeting illustrations.
More desultory “small talk,” and false memory of things.
Grown sick of the “casual,” as the actual in talk is rare; the common is moot.
And try, but struggle to sustain your social corpse…
And to parse what you poisoned, of either before or five minutes ago.
It’s origin, loaded, with false pretense or misunderstanding— something unsound.
It’s easy to care less… given the weakness all around.
But try to care…
Nevertheless you harden with each unending uncontrollable error or delay.
But hey, you deserted it, and “justly,” it deserted you back. “Deservedly,” you could say.
“Where this D. becomes an Ass,” or just an “A.” (See what I did there? No, f__k you.)
To try, and fight the never mind!
It, why try to define; what creation brings, based biased like all other things, right?
Tired, but too much, or too little too late…
What in God’s name is being created??
To try, but in time…
You find in anything and everything hard, and that prolonging the effort helps none of it.
That working harder at a false base will not help; doing so will only age you faster.
…But what is true? Running so long and far, you’ve stressed and forgotten…
To try to try, your efforts “nigh.”
It yields the conclusion, same and old but as to why… you fail.
Not enough love.
Or not the right kind.
To no longer try…
As “love is a choice,” the corrupted mother says… a reciprocity of long past days.
You continue to tolerate the wear and pain, in stagnation and work… to “try.”
Your goal, from long ago, ultimately and unfortunately reduced to finish and die.
I grew a little. I sold without money. I listened and weighed.
But without answers, I can only listen in passing.
Without hope, however, giving up… sounds like bliss sometimes.