Up and Down

A force within, pulled down and up,
Racked my brain, and wreaked havoc
With my heart. My life a shambles,
Holding onto the end of the shipwreck.

Created to be—something—unique.
Sometimes it seems as though I am
A monster, sometimes a master,
Most of the time something in between.

At the mercy of my emotions,
A manic-depressive collage,
Created and creating,
Something from it all.

And somewhere in there,
A mind struggles to make sense
Of the ups and downs,
Finding redemptive meaning in it.

Sometimes I wonder,
Is it possible?

To Have Too Much

Drum, goes the beat, on my heart.
It echoes through my body,
And my soul cries out its anthem,
“To bed! To bed! One more time,”

It says. To freedom from toil,
To leisure, to escape from suffering.
And my head chimes in,
“Bills, bills, bills, remember them.”

Oh, how they haunt me,
Follow me everywhere.
I slave at my workplace
To pay my bills,

I panic at the grocery,
Hoping for a miracle
When I get to the register
To pay for this cart of wants

And needs, piled high in
Revery, oh to have, to get,
To be, to escape, to luxury,
Oh, to be there, just once!


Crying, sweeping self from shores long served.
Dead, again so dry, so off, so…nothing itself.
Stuffed sameness swiped forth factoid run-arounds.
Regurgitating reality run through the ringer.

Rejection again. Feeling down to the bone, boneless.
Slick words go down like chunks of rock and ash.
Intentions disbelieved and promises uncounted on
Still bite just as strongly or all the worse the same.

Laughing in ironic mockery strikes like a knife to the spirit,
Hopes torn, then chopped, then diced, then liquefied to boot.
Trust betrayed at every turn, never knowing what face will
Appear at the next turn of the screw, cutting right through.


Solo subjection to professional opinion,
Legalese and doctoral battle for dominion.
Something smells inside this shell,
Rotten carcasses show me to hell.

Know-it-alls and better-than-yous come forth
To brag and pulverize the humble.
Beneath and beside don’t matter in here,
The worker ants are just fodder.

Looking for a chink in everyone’s armor,
Taking note of it all while taking it all.
Nothing left for the little man,
No man at all.

Equal access to no access,
Pawns played in a players’ game.
Casualties are only noted
As a notch to count for the win.

Feeding the Beast

Stub your toe and see what you get.
The miser watches, he flies ahead.
He keeps your purse in his greedy hands.
He holds your future, his power is grand.

The miser can throw you to the wolves,
If his mood is dark enough and bold.
He can take from you every dollar,
And he won’t listen, when you holler.

When living in the miser’s tent,
You scrimp and save to pay the rent.
When working for the miser’s pay,
It’s “do this now, or else” each day.

Not an easy place to be.
Not ideal, by any means.
My wife and I get by, at least,
So every day, I feed the beast.