In my mind there are
moments when I peek
into the void, this
senseless, piteous void of
emptiness, despair,
unrealized hopes,
wasted dreams.
I look in there
and see all things
I hate, all the things
I really can’t stand
about myself.

Freed from this, in a
momentary triumph,
I touch the base
I know I once had.

Still, I remain haunted,
plagued by the things
I could have been,
should have done.

And through it all
there is me.
What a love-hate life
it has been.

In some abasing, hollow frame of mind,
pondering endlessly upon how
together distasteful and alluring though it is,
the inevitible always shall be.

For with a passing hint of time, there is
no other fantasy to which to turn;
I find myself drawn to ponder the distasteful,
however selfish it may seem,
and yet that end becomes at times alluring.

How much I love this life, I know. Yet,
other facets of this being, as yet pondered,
perhaps partially explored, I don’t know.
There may be a further freedom that I know;
there may be an existence I further love,
and yet it entices and does scare me so.

Cold grey night of uncertainty
I wash the fear from faces of stone.

If you really touched me, I’d know fearlessness,
but it’s no use.

Your touch is that of a mother’s
Your hands are busy cleansing, washing over me.
Me the lover, not the fighter
Me the jester, not the prophet
Me the sick, not the well.

and you.

I fear a touch, the touch of a lover
or fighter,
I fear the prophecies
of a jester.

of you.

and I wash the fear
from this face of stone.

No torture is created here;
the passion is the torture
to this obsessive mind, wherein
I find no complacency or fear;
no apprehension, my dear.

Just face me, follow the depths of
your mind,
where you’ll find you can control
this fear,
this mind.

My dear,
All you can do is try.