sigh, it’s cloudy out
and my new reality
has yet to breach the dawn
today is not so good i think
i feel off
like i haven’t wiped the crud from my eyes
no birds this morning, it feels like a bad omen
it hasn’t even been a week
and yet i already feel washed out
i’m not yet destroyed though
there are pages yet to be re-written
and i know death has to come first (death of the ego)
otherwise there can be no resurrection
the cards are very clear
rebirth she said that’s the ticket
sometimes it feels like this is just another lie
but something in me says
“no tears please, there’s still hope”
though i know old habits always die hard
and the path of survival is often lonely
and littered with many distractions

dammit i shouldn’t read bukowski’s early works
first thing in the morning
these grim prophecies are just too easy to swallow
it’s still warm out though
warm enough to sit on my front steps
shirtless, big bare belly exposed
to all the passing worker ants
as they pretend to ignore
this oddity by the side of the road
most days i’m happy i’m not one of them
i guess i should feel lucky
some folks spend lifetimes searching
but do they know what they’re searching for?
happiness is inconsistent
that’s the truth we so often refuse to see
and misdirection is the magician’s trick
i forget this sometimes
but i’m always reminded (by the other guy)
that this temporary misery
is just another self-imposed fate
i can deal with all that
the real hell isn’t failure
it’s being so consumed by the matrix
that you’ve nothing to say
a state of soft irrelevance
when the word just won’t come
that’s true suffering
so i guess it’s good to compose
these morning pages
it’s good to talk to you
even if you’re not really here
it may not be poetry
but it’s a sign
that i’m still alive

as i finish writing this
the sun is starting to break through
the wet, empty morning haze
the gods, impotent as they may be
are sending a sign
so you see my friend
it’s like i said earlier
there’s still hope