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what nature hides behind those eyes
of all colors shapes and size
I am curious what others think
in the sanctuary of there minds
are we as we apear to others both far and near
do our true natures hide or do they fear no thing
do we hide behind masks so strong so real that
none can tell what we feel?
do we all see the same
or do we precive slite differences
who can tell?
is philosophy a waist of time
or theology worth pondering?
should we live our lives a lie
and stop questioning what we see
with these acursed, blessed eyes

Obsessed I am, obsessed with an obsession
so great, so profound, so intense
it would more be more rightly called possession
a possession of a curious spirit/demon/angel
one with which neutrality is all thats left
and again I will, neigh, have digressed

I am obsessed with rage and depression
but most of all with questions
questions of life and death
of eyes and hidden truth and more
along the lines of theology and more personal beliefs
suggestions perhaps they are
misguided attempts to define me
who you really are

Why can't I find an answer to my rage?
is that who I am?
an insincere incarnate of that burning emotion
an emotion that destroys all in its path
eating, feeding, devouring

or maybe it's depression?
why am I depressed?
is it these questions
or something else?
I have no reason to be!
I have everything I think I want
well really all I need

I was always told that
to write is to free yourself
that it helped release yourself
of thoughts and these dangerous emotions

Maybe why I am depressed
and possessed of boundless rage
obsessed with obsession
are the aforementioned questions!
questions that twist and turn
they burn paths through my mind
like water trickling through a broken dam
who am I?
what am I?
who are you?
why why why!
it all comes back to why!

of life and death what questions could there be?
I don't know and yet I do
a contradiction I know yet it's true

outside it rains and thunders
screams and tears a blunder!

what are these thoughts that weigh so heavy on my mind?
on eyes and truth I have pondered
and finally asked my questions
no more shall I ramble and bore you with that fearsome subject!

so I have written
I have shouted
I have asked and I have queried
I have looked and I have pondered
to the best of my abilities on subjects far and wide
mostly on the cliche's;
who, what, where, when, and why

I licked the envelop
placed the stamp
and put the letter in the box
and to my anger and disappear
great sadness and confusion
I have received but one reply

A silence so intense
so invigorating that the answer
was either never there or always there
maybe, perhaps, somewhere in between

It told me to go ahead and ask my questions:
what is the point of theology?
which philosophy holds true?
what question will I think of next,
and what precisely was the clue?
The answer I tell you
is simple

There was no answer
no reply
nothing for me to do
the only person who knows the truth
then is me/you



the answer was the question
or was the question an answer
ah but now i know tis both

A knew obsession I just perceived
is symmetry and opposites
to be conclusive:
contradiction,
I think, that is the key
the clue, the question, the answer
or maybe its the concept
the one that alludes my grasp
the one that captures my mind
the idea the thought
of poem and poet
author and book
art and artist
work and worker

maybe the true answer to the question
is what is the question
I wonder...
what is my conviction?
how strongly do I hold my truth?

for I have come to realize
on this journey threw my thoughts
that truth, religion, and philosophy
are all objective
and conviction, mental strength, are all the commonalities

I shout out proudly that I don't believe
I am an atheist it is true
is the lack of belief then my belief that I hold true?
these thoughts confuse me and it is a late hour

I wonder... do you follow?
do you keen, do you know,
do you believe,
do you care?
what is it that drives you
what is it that keeps you on my path

yes this is my path
one of question and deceit
though I only may deceive myself
or maybe so I think

It's out of order isn't it?
just like my thoughts are thunk
for this is how I think

did you like your venture
your little trek through my mind
my thoughts
my me?

can you tell me the answers to my question?
have I hit it on my blind attempts?
do you know?
can you tell?
will you help me?

if you could
if you would
I know that I'd refuse
for then it would be to easy
and all my patient wandering will be for naught
a waste of time
a waste of space
a waste

“Trial of a Muse”

“Silence in the court”
The judge shouts to the audience
As I sit behind the podium
Waiting for my cross

My lawyer fidgets
With his tie
He is quit nervous I can see
The prosecutor smiles
For it is evident
I will lose this trial

The prosecutor puts on airs
He prances like a pony
He comes up
And asks of me if I understand

I yell at him
“You little twit of course I comprehend
That I am, now, on trial
I understand my rights
And I will suffer this indignity,
I will lower to your fowl standers”

He plays for the jury of my “piers”
The perfect figure of a hero
Come to thwart an evil villain
Which of course is me

Before he has a chance to speak
I open my own mouth
And the twisted words spill out
“So let me get this straight
I am being tried
For admitting that I plagiarized?
But a question I have for you
Though this may not be the time”

“Did you stop to hear the rest?
Did you know that
From whom I stole those wondrous ideas
Was in fact a muse
My muse you can
And surly should presume”

“I felt sad and sorry for it, the muse,
It had no hands with which to write
Or mouth for it to speak by
So I offered up my self
A sacrifice you see”

The lawyers scuffed at this
And the jury of my piers
Sat as if bored
One seemed to be transfixed by a little spider
Crawling up the podium
It was a sad state
I wished then I could retire

“This statement was given
In response to a question by a friend
He asked for me to give the mean
Of something I myself can't comprehend
And so I truthfully replied
Twas not me that wrote it
For that I blame the muse”

At this I turn to the judge
“Why can you not try me
For things I have truly done
There are plenty wrongs
Illegal acts I have
In fact committed
I have in one sitting murdered
Butchered and maimed...”

At this the court was finally silent
“So judge I implore you to bang your gavel
Reduce the time the jury has to waist,

For that is surely what they do with it
In my own view,
Oh, yes before I digress much farther

I ask of you to end this now and through the book at me
For my works that I have done
The murdering and the butchering of
The English language”

At this the judge banged his gavel
Much like a naughty child
He turned to me his face a
Funny shade of red
“How dare you make a mockery of this court!”

I smiled wanly at the opening
I sat and pondered should I do it?
Take such an easy shot?
Why not?
I couldn't possibly dig myself in deeper
“Excuse me, if you will
But the court had no need of me
It is a farce in and of itself!”

And that was it
The judge had had enough
The executioner went to sharpen his ax

And right before the fateful swing
I shouted out once more
That some where deep inside of us
There is a muse
Telling us and guiding us
On what we should rightly do
That if we but listened
Maybe then the world we know
The world we all so love
Would not be such a sorry state