Innasense

2020-12-28 09:42 pm

Obsessions 

What power you hold over me...
Every action, every thought 
Is just a push in your direction 
Feeding into the obsessions, 
Lost connections, misdirections, 
Absolutely positively coerced into these affections 
By a brain constantly seeking tiny moments of perfection. 

Though you kind of must admire this curation of adoration, 
All the mental efforts required to keep up the constant cultivation 
Of this undisturbed fixation, 
The impropriety and distraction 
of a single-minded meditation, 
All these mind-numbing, pacing, 
clock-like rotations 
Theoretically leading this obsessive mind to pure elation, 
The uninhibited fruits 
of this persistent dedication. 
Happy sighs and exhalations...

But then...
The sobering realization 
That somehow life existed 
before this shrine’s erection
And perhaps the cracks start to show, 
Unexpected but apparent imperfections, 
Initially denied and resolutely rejected, 
The shattered shards of a crystal ball that disagrees with my projections, 
The deflation, depletion, extortion
Of my vexation, 
Maybe leading to complete and utter exoneration... 
The disintegration of my fascination. 
Maybe someday...

But for now I prefer to float in my comforting contemplations, 
Giving in to the infatuation, 
These happy delusions 
of my mind’s incarceration. 
And if the worst this should cause is 
These false exhilarations, 
Then I shall stay here for a while 
And enjoy the scintillating sensations 
Of my obsessive ruminations. 

A
Temporary
Salvation. 

Gord

2020-12-23 03:32 pm

Drawing breath, intending a scream,
Time passes, wake from dreaming,
Sometimes excessive zeal demeans,
So squeak like the law itself,
Garlic men, in the broadest sense,
Concentrate on the bread when pressed,
But what of butter and how it melts?

Even of appalling strength,
Does it correspond to depth, or meaning?
Rocking chair, what have you seen,
Beside the bedside and people watching?
Even if time lacking, population immense,
Despite desperate pleas: fences.

Lynn

2020-12-17 01:12 pm

sitting on the red couch eating rice and beans straight from the pot the rice is undercooked and toothy it sticks to my spine it burns my throat picking around green peppers while the south winter sun runs through the window and reflects off the floor and is blinding bright it burns my eyes it doesn’t feel warm at all despite the two pairs of socks and layered shirts and oh

i’m so tired. 

might just. 

wrap up in a blanket

and go to sleep. 

Gord

2020-12-04 02:41 am

Ball fist, if wishes could talk,
One would place their chips down;
If life were a play, or odd film,
Kings would admit our wrongs,
But it's not.
Wishing could be in your head,
Talking all things that god is,
Appending the self at the end,
Thinking itself less important,
But it's not.