Parched Pavements

Part 1 of 4 poems that go together. This wrote itself.

Sitting on parched pavements, I relish a cheap snack,

feigning to call it a meal

and wash it down with a cigarette

probably manufactured from the floors of nicotine fatories.

Contemplating life's resistence

to my pull of the moral code of contradictions,

for aren't we all just walking hypocricy

with fleeting thoughts and enemy emotions

penetrations our predispositions?

 

Maybe I never really believed I was crazy,

sitting in the point of zen

with those mad hatters spitting hatred loud enough

just because the world refuses to listen

and they all walk listlessly to the grave as will I,

maybe rejecting, maybe embracing the fire we travel through...

 

The destination is just a goal,

the distance of a journey a mathmatical equation.

What really matters is what illumination each step brings,

the intensity of your mindmade heaven or hell...

and some days I can't wait to see what death brings

because anyone with eyes should view suicide

as the only logical conclusion,

whether it's the instant you pull the trigger

or the years you abuse your ever-changing vessel.

 

**********

 

I guess that means I chose the slow self-capitulation

for my spirit has it hard remembering this world,

 

only certain eyes familiarize their light to mind

and I find it hard to relate to the poetic hate of most

when the many whom fed from the fire

burned any sense of innocence they may have had.

 

Now it's just love and drugs

with a soundtrack of noises old and new.

 

Either way I shrink and grow through destruction

bearing seeds of creating

bringing fruition from a moment of contemplation,

 

Either way my suicide is a long time coming

even though every waking dream

shocks me into a cold sober sweat

wondering if I was just hiding inside my mind

or touching a reality most dismiss...