Patterns, cycles, programs, that time won't let resign

 When it rains it pours,
and these tears won't close the door.
In a single moment,
a lifetime of poverty catches up
and seizes me.
strangles me.
beats me,
and flails me side to side.

I've been so patient,
abiding with grace,
small, silent, and steady gains,
but every time I try to make a move,
Life refuses to let me budge.
Reminds where I have come from,
reminds me I am of the mud.
It doesn't hold back from its malicious shoves.
And eventually, we all go back from whence we have come.

Sure, there's a lesson,
there's always a lesson,
but I'm tired of striving to be wise,
I'm tired of always having to be the point of balance,
to eat everyone's neuroticism,
and to respond with kindness,
with balance, with clarity.
no matter how much indigestion it causes,
no matter how much it burns,
there is no alternative.

Despite this exhaustion,
I have no other course,
for when I respond in kind,
rather than with kindness,
the flames just build,
and any hope for truth,
for clarity,
vaporizes in the release of utter irrationality.

Shiva's Hide and Seek:

 We are all pretending.
Some to a greater degree,
some to a lesser.
Nonetheless,
pretenders all the same.

Beware those the utmost,
who "humbly" proclaim,
that they are always the same,
always in bliss,
always true,
perhaps they exist,
but so far they've all been just fools.

Fooling themselves,
and anyone who will listen.

I've been there myself,
no judgements given,
but if you strive for truth,
you need to come off it.

For the one who is not pretending,
has not a thing to say.
No utterances,
nor inclinations.
No need for jumbled-haphazard-clarification.
No need for designation, punctuation, or annotations.
No need for narrative, or some warped interstellar-propaganda
For they know,
that you know,
that they know;
even if you have forgotten.
even if you refuse to acknowledge.

For even the most wordy, least nerdy, most materialistic, consumeristic bore,
knows this truth.
It is intrinsic in their bones.
Perhaps floating somewhere between channel 5 and 11,
youtube search results 1 and 44.
If they could just cut the chord,
it would all become well known.

Dreams are for those who sleep, Visions for those who can dream while wide awake:

 A cabin of my own,
an isolated,
yet not lonely home.

Surrounded by friendly flowers,
and protective wizened trees.
Perhaps a brook, or creek,
or lake for deep reflecting.

A cabin of my own,
one day I could call home,
If I need to build it myself,
give me the means and tools
to learn and know.

But I am certain I am not the first,
nor the last,
to desire the sweet gifts,
willingly released from nature's grasp.

There have been those whom have come long before,
and built their dreams,
with the skills they had inborn.

To take the abundance
that nature freely offers,
and responding in kind,
replanting each tree,
as prayer and thanks,
for a place to rest my well-travelled feet.

A cabin of my own,
perhaps just a dream,
perhaps exactly what I need.

A monument to sun,
earth,
air,
water,
fire,
and sky.
To harness the sun and wind,
To stand reverent to the darkness,
to collect the rains,
to grow beans and grains,
perhaps a few chicks,
and milk baring beasts.

Can I attain this dream by means of my intrinsic traits?
of the gifts I so haphazardly guide?
I am not like the men before me,
so skilled with their hands,
wood, and tools.
I know I won't return to the soul-crushing grind.
That ship has sailed,
holes and all.

I don't long for much,
I want my parents healthy,
my friends happy,
I want to live comfortably,
in nature's ever-changing embrace.

 A cabin of my own,
an isolated,
yet not lonely home.
offering respite to friends and foes alike,
come by, the door is open,
the fireplace always alight.

I'll put on some tea,
we can play some music,
or perhaps paint the various
greens which greet our eyes.
 

A cabin of my own,
perhaps just a dream,
perhaps exactly what I need.

The Unspeakable Name

 Your name is,
violence in my mouth.

To Dare to speak it,
Would be a revolution,
Upon my lips.

To risk it all,
To speak the truth,
How many around me,
Would suffer because of you?

It is said,
"If the truth will destroy them,
then let them die"
But it is also said,
"Let the sleepers lie"

Regardless.
The force of your name,
Locked, Cocked, and Loaded,
The Truth in the Chamber,
Love in the moment.
Creates and destroys with silent baited breath.

I tongue your syllables
Anticipating your release,
the lips of truth are forever,
but a liar's tongue,
will soon cease.

What good would your name be,
to ears filled with wax?
What benefit
to ears filled
with The buildup of decades
of detritus and cultural crud,
Of cultish, Childish, fanatical wish fulfillment?

And yet, I feel pressed,
My mouth feels obligated,
My tongue, slowly slipping away from being my own,
My lips pursed and ready to blow.

As I inhale, drunk on your scent,
I oblige the urge within.
I throw away the need to be of benefit,
I throw away fears of persecution and dissent,
I discard all things,
save to savor the flavor,
of your sweet unsayable name.