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I can
I can’t move away from the paper, the pen is my religion, my quiet reflection,
But also sparks an outward reaction,
And chains me in thoughtless inaction,
But every new word breathes life to my situation,
The only way to soak out logic,
In a brain heavily medicated,
Between perceptions,
Of mysticism and cold hard existenlism,
I paint the gray, for my religion is the new day,
And I plunge into the darkness,
Not afraid to fly with whatever harkens,
Feelings come and go, but I’ll overflow the gates of Rome and outshine the pope,
On a sucicidal mission for Uncle Sam, or so it seemed, I held down the corner on which I lived with every inch of my fiber, of my wild soul at the time, For no other reason than salvation, from my drunken escapades,
I wanted the glory of going against the grain, and winning in the game all the same,
the streets were kind,
to a gyspy vagabond, I can’t complain,
But it was my own mind I couldn’t escape, my soul needed space air to breathe,
To sit back and think about what I really accomplished was a long treatise stolen,
I plunge into darkness like flies at the market,
I plan to expose its weakness, always getting farther, than were I started, sapping energy of all around me, Restless soul wired to light the way,
Sometimes it burns out on me, but sheer inner hunger, desire, burn, thunder, Learn
Cant be humble, meaning will follow, leave my soul for satan to swallow,
And spit back out in a raging fire,
Cosmic designers, stars burning,
They say our fate is illiuminated at night,
But me I find faith,
In the English language,
I got style in the way I write,
I have no patience for metaphors to materalize,
Nor similies to visulize, Just raw energy to ride the lines,
May my soul out shine my weary mind,
To find words of a kind to break through this core of lies,
Designed by some enitities or powers that be,
Those things matter little to me,
As I turn to another disappointing day, wasted away, the truth is
I hate to stray, from words of play, were I can spin webs of words as shields,
That capture time and heal,
Give me a sense of control,
Over a seemingly chaotic and random course,
Renegade Rogue of the verbal form,
Strikes with force.

This poem is Copyright ยฉ BSteel