Some say I'm soulful,
Others the Devils tool,
One minute I might find you doleful,
The other acting quite the fool.

Yet that's patently unfair,
One aspect that I can't abide,
For I'm as pure as the morning air,
A child of the gentle ocean tide.

You may not think I live, but live I do,
Spawned in my cocoon of flames,
I thrive, but then die too,
Often amongst angst and conflicting claims.

My pedigree is strong,
Admired and always wanted,
With me you simply can't go wrong,
At times even something to be flaunted.

Your forebears held me close,
I'm privy to their secrets,
Through me their lifeline flows,
Despite them lying with the crickets.

I'm a chameleon, color is my muse,
I change according to my company,
Treat me well, never abuse,
For at my core a fragile symphony.

Where I came from no one knows,
But the world is my own oyster,
Having neither friends nor foes,
Life itself is what I foster.

Now you ask, who can I be
Someone quite so clearly needed,
Look around and you might see,
Generations that preceded.

The momentary confines
And the viscosity of this remembering
It sticks to my throat
And I think of ways to love
Beyond the way of words
Beyond the everyday exchange
But to hold on to everything
Past and future in these frail hands
Sew them deep into the leftover stains
From Sunday brunches
And midnight snacks

At ease
You tell me
I listen, I listen, I listen

The pain of telling stories
Clutches onto my chest
I wish I could tell you what hurts
And what doesn't

But I listen, I listen, and listen

you see you feel you
think you choose and that last one
is so difficult

Ah! Soon it's Christmas again.
I can't wait till it's over.
If only I could hang ten,
We'd all be wrapped in clover.

My mind whirls in never-ending revolutions
Searching for something to put into a physical form
But to no avail.
A deep maelstrom, ******* in, but never putting out.
Seeking to manifest, yet without means or material to do so.
I wonder stuck aloft inside my own brain.
How.
How do I do this, I think, brooding over my own thoughts.
Sentence after sentence and nothing appears.
A terrible curse entrenched in my head
And benumbing my very process of thought.
The Energy of a supernova spewing out an inordinate amount.
I need to transform it,
Put it into production,
Set it to work so I don't perish along
With my own shortcomings and flaws.
Still, no matter how hard I stress my mind, I’m left with nothing.
A veritable nothing.
What am I to do
What do I do-