In the next thirty years,

There are too many tasks brimmed with ill-founded complexity,

Preying on every second I may lead astray.

As I attempt to shadow certain madness,

An odd kind of creativity,

Scarce writers already indulge in.

 

The works I dissect,

Continually sever the common threads,

Of this man I am becoming.

It all began with a few nibbles,

Years ago.

And soon as that light sensation settled through my flesh,

It devoured me, ravaged me in fact.

This infestation of scents:

Of pencil skin and ash,

Of aged books and newly conceived paper.

Fill my lungs in entirety.

All rooting from this endless craving to master.

To write until the joints between my bones,

Fall victims to the erosion of age.

And soon after,

Shriek like the devilish fiends stuck beneath our feet.

To eat away at my fingernails,

As my mind stagnates in psychological bondage.

And through the following flurry of blankness,

Witness the oddities of this world with this exhausted shuttle of mine.

To engrave these infamous tales,

Into my own skin and hopefully,

Alleviate my own burdens.

 

So until the lead in my pencils,

Feed the shadow-less, un-squinting lines.

Until the ink in my pens,

Thin into the nothingness of paper,

Swallowed by its pristine whiteness.

Until the blood in my veins…

Every drop of it runs out,

Replacing the feeble bases with which I print.

That alone will hardly be enough to satisfy,

This unorthodox yet heavenly impulse.

Then and only then,

Will my purpose expire all together.

 

In the next thirty months,

Two years and a half if you prefer,

I seem to be hunted by numerous mortal ills and responsibilities.

Yet I still attempt to comfort myself,

With trickery I know all too well.

“I have found a better place within the lobes of my mind,

Better than the physical realm.

A world which remains within me,

Unchanged and unscathed in substance.”

And too often do I cower behind empty words.

And as the particular man I am…

I accept this one truth.

 

Over the course of the next 30 weeks,

The choices I make on this road,

On which I now tread,

Scar in fact…

Are sure to become the monstrous boulders,

I brushed aside today,

As the pebbles in my shoe.

 

In the next 30 days,

During this fragrantly warm July,

It seems I ponder far too many things still,

For an adolescent of my conjecture.

Too many pitiful creatures to break into submission,

Too many leashes to grasp and watch over.

Not to mention,

A breaking carriage with no fix.

I wish to release one after another,

After another,

After another…,

But I end up tightening the collar.

As these fiends,

Constrict my neck with a collar of their own.

And so,

I become,

More accurately regress into a pitiful creature myself.

Strangled in each other’s fleetingness,

In our attempt to co-exist.

 

In the next 30 minutes,

I could slumber into cryogenic euphoria,

So to speak…

And with flesh marked by foreign hand and stick,

Modified through threads and scars,

With every butchered tale,

I’ve spun between my fingers.

 

I journey for mere pleasure,

And cringe ideological conflict.

So in practice, one after another,

Beings are born with ease.

Beings whom find luxurious lodging,

Within the lobes of my mind.

These dear mental critters,

Prisoners within the concave bone walls of my skull.

Existence justified only to soothe my solitude.

 

Now I wonder…

What can I do in the next thirty seconds?

I can come to regret decisions I’ve made,

But it would be futile, pointless in fact.

And above all irrelevant…

I can expire and rest like most of any age do,

But there are debts I have not settled.

I could simply become a spectator,

And see and feel everything happen,

In the 30 seconds they might occur.

But sobriety of this lively game,

Would be somewhat temperance I don’t seek.

 

I’d rather reassure one decision…

I will continue to scribble to my heart’s content,

And continue this path with pen and pencil in hand.

As a verse writer,

Such a simple minded decision,

Isn’t it?

This world is one grand notebook after all,

Nothing more…

One awaiting insemination within its earthly womb,

And the creativity which will soon allow itself to bloom,

For the rest of the world to admire or fear.

Therefore I am..

A writer, a poet, a creator,

A weaver of dialects.