On Outreach

Cynical Wordsmith

Is there significance
In reaching out?
Searching out readers,
Following them,
Assessing their works,
Undressing their mind,
They all seem
A bit of a game.
A tennis match of likes,
A quid pro quo following,
This for that,
Tit for tat,
Criticism and compliment
Because every opinion matters.

Is there significance
In reaching out?
Does the need for companionship,
To eliminate loneliness,
Justify
This ravenous search?
When the world is hollow
And your mind is blank,
Does the voice of reason
Appear, suddenly,
On the blog of another?

Is there significance
In reaching out?
To preach my practice,
To help others understand,
That we can do better,
So very much better,
Than the prison cells
We call home?

Is there significance
In reaching out?
Yes.
Undeniably and undoubtedly,
Yes.

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Taxes

Cynical Wordsmith

I don’t know
Where this fatigue comes from.
Is it the food I eat,
Or the air I breathe,
Or the lack of sleep,
Or simple exhaustion?
Maybe it’s the things I hear,
The people I talk to,
The books I read,
The places I go.

I feel like an IRS agent,
With all the taxes
On my system.
But I can’t quit my job,
I just have to hope
For a promotion,
For something better.

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Bear With Me

Cynical Wordsmith

I’m not the man
That I used to be.
You were my stability
When I was unstable.
Two roles
We never conciously accepted.
And now,
I’m learning to depend,
To rely,
On myself.
I’ve not replaced you,
I’ve not overtaken what’s yours.
I want to be one half of a whole,
Not an entire burden.
Please, I beg you,
Bear with me,
And I’ll learn to be yours
All over again.
And maybe,
Just maybe,
We’ll live and love happily
After all.

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All Aboard

Cynical Wordsmith

Love is a train
That too many people miss.
Endless connections,
Infinite passengers,
Mountains of trash and baggage,
Wake up, get on,
Get off.
The dead are outside,
Thrown freely to the tracks.
And when the loop finishes
We can admire their decay.
Love is a train
Where you can sit with someone.
Holding hands,
Staring intently
As the neighboring compartment burns
And the cliff draws ever closer.
Love is a train
I’ve ridden too much,
But because I see her,
Looking off, out the window,
I think I’ll buy a ticket
To eternity.

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On Stories

Cynical Wordsmith

I write poetry mostly.
Feelings and thoughts,
Days I’ve lived,
Questions and conclusions.

But I have stories,
Some short, some long,
All impactful,
All with a personal touch.
But before you ask,
No,
I haven’t written them.
They exist solely for me.
I need to write soon.
They’ve been circling,
Eyeing my thoughts
Like vultures,
Picking at the tastiest morsels
Making themselves stronger.
I have volition
For the time being,
But I’m lying in a desert
Growing weaker,
Watching them
Watch me.

Some day soon,
I’ll nock my pen
And kill
These bastard buzzards.
Until that time,
I’ll keep my eyes up,
And pen my own feelings
Lest I feel no more.

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Re:

Cynical Wordsmith

There are rules.
They’ve kept me alive,
They’ve kept me sane,
And I don’t remember
How I ingrained them so
Remarkably.

They were specific,
Meant to protect everyone,
Myself included.
Dire consequences
Require
Drastic measures.

But I can’t see for my fingers
At the path laid ahead of me,
And rains wash away
The notes etched on my arms.
Lost is a four letter word,
And here we are, again,
Searching cobblestones
Searching for anything,
Really.

I try and think of what’s changed,
But I’m rarely honest with myself,
So I’ll probably never figure it out.
Maybe only children are malleable.
Maybe I’ll figure it out in a couple years.
Maybe I’m just stuck on
Repeat.

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