Charon sits, moored upon the shore,No lantern pierces the fog.A cold, penniless wakeâNot even a ripple on the bog. The dark, still watersâSerene. Indifferent.They spare the destitute,But not the morally indigent. Ashes forgotten, sealed in the furnace,Closed to the skies.No breezes to catch, no currents to ride,No fields to fertilize.
The man on my birth certificate has died.But he was no manâA revenant at best,Chained to drinkAnd inhuman emotion.Hollow and bereft. He has died as he lived:Forgotten.
The saints of hustle descend upon the unfulfilled,And proselytize of their victimsâ future fortuneIf only theyâll grit their teeth and grindâŠgrindâŠgrind⊠From the other side of their mouths theyâll remindTheir quarry that grit isnât enough and suggestThey also create a clever new designâŠdesignâŠdesign⊠Monetize your hobbies and even your downtimeSuch that your rest isnât forâŠ
Some people train for a 5K with a structured plan, tracking splits and heart rate zones. Iâm not saying I donât try that. But Iâve taken it a step furtherâI train with an Australian Shepherd who thinks every run is an Olympic event, a parkour course, and a meet-and-greet all rolled into one. Because IâŠ
The mornings are better without you.I can watch the gray give way to blue,Let light creep in where you reclinedâShaping my expectation,Building anticipation. No aftermath, or hours-long bath,No drowning in your stench.No raw-throated prayersOr mirror-eyed staresAt the wreckage of your wake. Your lips promise warmthâA slow burn, a whispered hush,A debaucherous dive into lust. ButâŠ
The bullshit was thick, and I needed a drink.I headed to the cupboard, right on the brink.But when I got thereâmotherfâit was bare!All alone it stood, taunting me, if I dare. âIâm all octane, baby, but check out my label!Iâm great in small doses, though a bit unstable.I pretend Iâm not neutral, flavorless, forgettableâNo, IâmâŠ
You fool.Youâre not apart from the herd;Youâre a part of it.Aftermarket?Still mass-produced.Your individualityAn affectationOf a common ideal.Your skill?Below average.BrashnessMakes you bold and stupid,Not nimble and responsive.Oversized egoAnd undersized bits.Compensation on your window. You pack animal.Oakleys and Skoal.Mountain Dew spit bottle.Commoditized pride(A Chinese export).Begging to be triedSo you fulfill a dream.Pumping gas and a mixOf MorganâŠ
Cowed into silence by a draconian voice,He seethes and bites his tongue.The monsterâs words yield no respect,Only bitter resentment from the young. Belittle and ridicule for amusement,Not for efficiency or order.The dwindling days âtil exodus meansTime for honing a legacy grows shorter. No one wants the beast to die,Just its atrocious behavior.But if fading awayâŠ
Youâve never heard my childrenâs laughter,Never felt their worrisome trembling.Youâll never pet my dog,Never clean up after her droppings. You wonât feel the wind on the backOf my motorcycle,Wonât know my favorite colorOr why I say itâs so. Our hands will never touch, no more hugs.Our feet wonât share another stride. We couldâve laughed.We couldâveâŠ