What I really love is belief in the process that we get better
How and when or why nobody knows for certain; then, it just happens
Ask me no questions, I may never get back home but I continue
To play with logic to make sense of the absurd as a go-getter
I get lost at times, I lose my way from the goal but then I return
Remember I've but no responsibilities except to dragons
Except they exist in our imagination not in the sinew
As a metaphor, the universe as body, the speculative
Let me return home, a home I have never been as I cannot learn
Let alone enjoy anything in this country for my privation
Yet deprivation others suffer equally so what is the point
Love is all, they say and in this I am lucky but explanation
Of course, lets reason guide a soul without passion, is time out of joint
Vexed dislocation, I used to play drums, a dream now vegetative
Eclipse sun and moon, the poets don't use these words as sentimental
Informed by naive standards of debased writing, the criterion
Structured by a break, always a break, with the past, continuity
Banished to exile, like me in America, this occidental
Episode lacks hope, as a drummer, a poet, or an old runner
Leave him well alone, he has issues or demons, Old Hyperion
If to die in youth is a blessing for no one, perspicuity
Ends the big picture as an unnecessary addition to thought
Focus on the good, the beautiful, and the true, as a tail gunner
It would be easy to face death each time I flew, I am not to blame
No one is to blame but consequences entail, enfold the curtains
Take consolation in the eternal return of the same, my shame
Haunted by ideas of the Afterlife, stupid theories as gardens
Each philosopher with her hard-won PhD, her soul, sold and bought
Process offers depth to a world of surfaces, a textual weave
Remember my birth in a city far away, not unlike my friend
Only she was born in Japan, it means little, not in her background
Country of birthright, completely arbitrary, nothing up my sleeve
Except a rabbit inside a velvet top hat, magician, no thanks
Simply no career, dead-end jobs, no confidence, money as an end
Success or failure, depends on your perspective, I'm healthy and sound
Trust superstition to knock on wood, not speak thoughts aloud for gods' ears
How it seems a mess, total loss in readership, does my gun shoot blanks
Ask me no questions, I ask myself too many, at a loss for words
Trust me, I give up, what's the point of going on, no one cares to read
Wicked as a child, I acted out to events, these ancient potsherds
Enter dysfunction, the child, a moth in a web, spider spins to bleed
Guarantees exist not for biological families, sustain tears
Even a worse word the poets will not accept, sentimental schlock
Track geographic, I stay away from toxic people, thus few friends
Better to explore, live with a purpose, even if it's just a sham
Enter my sorrow, a lifetime of suffering, time becomes a clock
Transform the bitter into sweet kindness and joy, don't make me vomit
Truculent and fierce, I accept the bad and worse, justify the ends
Elicit the means as process to make better, the ghost of the clam
Remember the wounds eventually heal, the scars, bees in my bonnet
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