A Labyrinth

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A voracious lover,
with a need to feed,
and no where to aim her affections.
She tries ignore them,
but the urges are too strong,
she held them in for too damn long.

Bacchus is her god,
on knees she prays,
to wine and pleasure,
to violent games.
She begs him to free her,
from the shackles of lust,
but he is a god,
she cannot escape his thrust.

A Manead,
thrown into Dionysian frenzy,
incapable of relieving her own hysteria.
Made immortal by desire;
no fire can burn,
and no iron can pierce.
She strikes fear,
in men,
with her spear,
and her raging eyes.
Under her feet grapes burst,
and intoxication is on the rise.

Bacchus let her free,
let her live a life of ease.
Do not come in pulses of uncontrolled inspiration.
Leave her be,
let her dominate temptation.

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Truth be told,
the truth is cold,
and I think the truth might be,
that I spend too much time in my own mind.

Truth be told,
its not always the healthiest place.

Truth be told,
the truth can’t be told,
because everything is just perception.
And it doesn’t really matter what I see,
what I perceive,
it matters much more what you think of me.
Projectons are illusions,
but illusions are all the more real.
It is only through the illusions,
that we can touch or feel.

Truth be told I think you know,
I think you hide too much.
Truth be told I think I know,
you think I share too much.

Truth be told sometimes I want to lie,
but I cannot even if I try,
for how can we even look for truth,
when we know that no one tells it right?
Truth be told I think you know,
I think you rely too much,
on what you perceive to be,
self-evident.
Truth be told I think I know,
you think I think too much,
about how I feel,
but is that not as real,
as reason, as reasoned,
from what you are perceiving,
through sight, hearing and touch?

Truth be told,
I brag a lot about my perfect senses,
but maybe then I am more right,
because I see right,
without any aid.
But truth be told,
that would mean my truth will likely fade.
But really,
I rely on others,
I rely on their perceptions,
because perhaps at least I can find,
imperfect truth,
in my perception,
of what they perceive,
perhaps that is the only way,
to attempt to reach for the forest,
you have to grab the trees.

Truth be told,
the only thing I actually know,
besides that I am likely to one day die,
the only other thing I know,
is that given the chance,
I will always love again.
I will always love when I can.
And that is the truth,
I think I know.
That is my world,
the way that I perceive it.

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My house is lived in.
There are dried roses in the corner,
toys on the floor,
and a banana peel too,
for comic relief.

My house is full of books,
many of them still unread,
in piles,
monuments to my aspirations.

My house has a revolving door.
Guests flow in and share their stories,
maybe leave a scarf behind.
My couch is worn,
and supportive.

My house smells like fresh baked bread,
sautéed garlic,
and chocolate chip cookies.

My house may seem cluttered to the unstudied eye,
but its carefully organized,
into collections,
of kisses from lovers,
laughter of friends,
and the quick smiles of children.

You walk in my home and judge my mess,
but you don’t fool me with your austere, Ikea-perfect dwelling.

I know your closets are full of crap.

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Overwhelmed,
by the vast bigness,
lost in language,
and the concept of normalcy.

On one side of the scale,
I am the educated,
the privileged,
the healthy,
and the beautiful.

But on the other side,
I am the infinitely inexperienced,
the morosely mortal,
who will one day be the dust.

I cross the expanse,
wobbling,
ever threatening to fall to the one side,
or the other.

I wonder what is the point of walking the wire at all.

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Anxiety.
Heart quickening,
teeth grinding,
anxiety.
Wheel turning,
midnight oil burning,
anxiety.
Big picture,
explosive mixture,
anxiety.
False piety,
concealed notoriety,
oh dear,
its the blood boiling,
fun spoiling,
pulsating anxiety.

You amplify my conscious life,
and make me unbury my bones.
You push me to reach,
to stretch,
to grow.
And my greatest fear,
is that now that you oiled my rusty gears,
the machine,
will sputter,
and steam,
then blow up in your face,
and you will leave,
disappointed.

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