Come nebbia,
Nebbia sparsa

Che divien acqua,
Poi torrente,
E poi per sempre

E forte e rapida e turbolenta
Cui vien la vita, la gioia, i colori

Il nostro scopo é
Ma non era niente

Here we go again.

Another poem focused
on the past, focused on
sins.

Another stanza of a
pain so deep inside,
that there’s no way out
from within.

Days go by and it never left,
Depression, obsession, and
a little possession,

It’s demonic,
and not right.

But suffering
never ends.

Breathe. Inhale. Live. Die.

Smoke and mirrors,
all the time.

Here we go again.

Another poem,
another line,

Written and signed

By the artist who lost
the will to live and survive.

Like mist, sparse,

becoming water,
and then a river,
and going forever

(and strong and fast and turbulent
growing life and joy and colors)

Our purpose is,
and was never.

The logic fascinates me,
How a perfectly fine bundle of bananas,
Is just thrown away,
Simply because,
Nobody wanted the inconvenience,
Of having to peel.

What does it matter?
These thoughts,
Feelings,
Concerns,
Are merely passers-by,
In this life of uncertainty.

No thought goes unforgotten,
So why do I think so much?

Bobbing and weaving,
Slipping and jabbing.

The fighting stance against a thousand opponents,
All of whom, look like me,
Is a stance I can only articulate,
In a mirror,
Shadow boxing that guy,
Strangely looking like me.

Pop-Pop BANG,
I throw punches at the air in front of me,
This bull can rage like Cinderella in a cage,
A square, roped cage,
Where life’s uppercuts put me in a daze.

The fighter in me,
One stubborn little *******,
Iron-jawed and iron-clawed,
Always taking one to the gut,
I fall down and so ruthlessly get back up.

24 and 0,
I’m the undefeated world champion,
My opponent remains consistent,
But I’m not afraid,
I got this far,
You think I can’t go a few more rounds?

Many hats on my head,
Many titles to claim,
I find it fulfilling to be,
Everything that motivates me.

One day I’m a fireman,
Another day I am a jailer,
This day I’m a poet,
Tomorrow I’ll be a mailer.

What’s funny is this,
A name and a shield,
Is merely a buck for a meal,
My ignorance is so bliss.

These paths are not me,
They are merely a guide,
For me to find whomever is me,
On a security guard’s salary.

To make films or to weep,
To keep jails or to sleep,
To fight fires or to leap,
Into this pen of little sheep.

Why is it that I,
Aim to be that guy,
Who’s career should imply,
That I’m “something” till I die?

An artist,
An actor,
An experiment of all factors,
I try hard to be somebody,
When I’m already my own everybody.

I’m exactly what I need to be,
In this world of all these faces,
Masks grow tight around these cheeks,
Why aspire to climb mountains,
And reach such heightening places?

I’m a detective one day,
An electrician by night,
A silly little dreamer,
Always ready to take on flight.

I’ll pilot this aircraft,
And spread my wings a’sailing,
Without prejudice or hesitation,
I may not always succeed,
But I’m never failing.

...a demented entity had entered me,
Imposing its will relentlessly,
I was moving nonsensically,
Blocking blessings that were meant for me,
These days I'm indecisive , And my vices are devisive,
My minds a rolling pair of dice and is the opposite of what paradise is..
Never been a better time to better myself.
I guess I had to go through things.
Never been a better time to bet on myself.
I guess its best to grow through things.
I never cared - I was careless ,
I feared being afraid - or maybe I was afraid to be fearless,
Thinking before I speak, I swallow my second guesses,
Sinking beneath my feet, I wallow in expected messes,
I guess I'm paradoxing, cause the problem could be possibly me,
Shadowboxing , dipping, dodging , but this pain I can't see,
Physically I'm fit, never been more mentally unhealthy,
Crazy how this emptiness can feel so heavy..
Still,
Filled to the brim, with testosterone and lighting,
I remember I used to walk like thunder,
these feelings I keep fighting, won't let em take me under,
Cause..
Some days I be feeling cloudy with a chance,
Others like I can build the twin towers with my hands,
Reality is different at first glance,
But this towels in my hands , washed clean ..tryin to save face,
Devoured the food for thought ,
But I forgot to sat my grace,
I can't gain from this wait,
A rare form of bulimia,
But belive me im breathing with the strength of bohemians,
The irony is that things unfolded to this exact moment in time,
I chose to dismantle MY solitude/ hopefully for something sublime,
It's funny how things work/
I guess I missed the punchline,
I'm at the used heart salesman/
standing in this lunch line ,
Missed my train of thought/
Too busy tryin to claim baggage,
Playing the cards I been dealt/
With this full house , im Bob Saget...