I have always been the one
when trouble starts, to cut and run
I always know when a thing is done
I always know when the time has come

So, what about this time?

Why do I still linger here
Where all I do is sweat and swear?
Why have I made it my career
To dress in guilt and live in fear?

So, when is it my time?
Is this what I do with my time?

Each time I begin to find my voice
I get distracted by these toys
Where they exult, where they rejoice
I find a cage devoid of choice

So, what the hell is time?
What, in Hell, is time?

It wouldn’t be to hide my shame at all
Should I refrain from making mention of’t
Nor would I feign to write this on the wall
And join the men before me who have loved

To sit uninterrupted by the eyes
Of those incapable of thinkers pose.
Tis them, not I, who fail to realize
How fast we fail when lacking this repose.

Nature calls on one in her own time,
fickly finds philosophies forlorn,
Turns running streams of consciousness to lime:
“Become again the beast that you were born!”

But cultured thought rests not from judgment free
So, let this haven safely hidden be

SONNET SKELETON, written June 2nd

It’s not that I’m embarrassed
Or that I don’t like people
But I need time and space to think
Despite how it’s been a joke, it is true

My shitting is my business
And business requires an office
A place with a door you can shut
And a place to keep your notes.

Besides what better way to be alone with ones self
And to understand ones nature
Than to let nature take hold
Completely
And be the beast that you were born?

If what I am cannot be truly free
Then let this haven safely hidden be

Program

See every path
Reaching into distant horizon
To touch the sunset

Each looping back
recursion sends out another swirl
in the Starry Night

Divine cosmos
Constellations acrobat patterns
Washed away in sunrise

Ugh. This is a terrible poem. Not even close to what I wanted.

Not fishing.