The edge gone
The words lacking clarity
Stagnant, unable to move/shift with that once possessed unbridled flow
No longer shaped and neatly placed to paper without thought

Tainted, they’ve become
By the overly cluttered normalcy that is my mind
And the ever increasing absence of time

No longer can I be accepting of this, but then should I
When listening to the wholehearted verses of others
Saying there is some betterment in clear headedness
With capacity to soar far beyond what one had ever dreamt
Personally anyway

Is that fact, truth
Or a placating of one’s own inner demons always seeking
The sweetest of justification
I am surely not daft
Even if I play irrational head games with myself

This, right now
Ritualistic nature I’ve attached with such purpose
To the words
My only sanity when most insane and yet
Was I insane because I was molded by a past that caught up with recent today’s
Or was it in all the outside influences
Them bottles particularly, that always shook perfection to the surface

Pausing, behind closed eyes
Meandering in the thoughts of
Instances such as those, slightly clouded, ever calm….
Finding myself weighing the acceptable risk in the deplorability of my thinking

But some things, like that pencil, did make sense
Although it never stood alone
Throughout all my years
It arrived unexpectedly, left unwittingly as the bottles did
And I really didn’t care, till now
To dare want more, need so vehemently

Alone, naked in some terms
Pieces are missing.
Or at least feel as if they are

Again, that edge
As I pick apart the obvious
Digressing, and the grip ... slipping

To let go, would
But then what choice is deemed in letting go?

Maybe there is nothing left
Could that be?

Or this is all an illusion, an excuse
To just, just


It really needn’t be yours.