What I Am
I am a microcosm of thought,
a macrocosm of fear,
and is it any wonder a human vessel,
in struggle of gauging the validity
of what I hear;
as whims of thought fester
within the chasms of my world,
and ultimate truths elude me,
as my delusion grand unfurls.
I irradiate the shadows,
make dark the profoundest light,
confuse my sensibilities
in pursuing ego’s flight;
yet potential I own in holding,
if only I could reach an accepting hand,
to vanquish all my demons,
and let love just take command.
I am a paradox, an enigma,
a contradiction of thought and action,
wading through a mire,
awaiting some form of sanction;
but in the end this vessel yearns,
for so much more than I can bare,
the pain and sacrifice for my every word,
the necessity of all I care.
In blood each word is created,
and in soul each thought alludes,
to all the truths that have scarred my flesh,
and the love that revealed my ruse;
for I am the architect of pain,
just knowing of potential,
has dragged my soul through revelation’s burn,
a sagacious mind only partial.
I am a work in progress,
both defeated and victorious,
undulating in time’s vast sway,
at the mercy of a mind facetious;
playing with life like a cat and ball,
taunting fate just to see it all,
and words roll from an aged smooth tongue,
joy within pain, for everyone.
- Brutal Night - March 30, 2021
- Like a Breeze Recalls - March 27, 2021
- Torrents - September 5, 2020
6 thoughts on “What I Am”
“I am a work in progress………” are we ever tony ! That just about sums up who we ALL are ! awesome write!
Thanks Ed, pleased you related and enjoyed the work. Much appreciated.
Complicated and marvelous creatures we are, always moving, rarely still long enough to listen to the voice of the soul. Forever a work in progress. Very well versed, Tony.
Thanks Phyllis, glad you appreciated it. Take care.
The work in progress, I really wonder about that Tony. I often feel the work simply a product of our gifts as writers, as the end draws nearer this time around, our work less wanting. A smear upon the future readers of our work, a drop in a bucket, a salute to our poets from the past. We pen our hearts and souls and feel every word. I don’t feel the progress as much as I feel relief to spew forth what my Muse mockingly at times from the shadows cast. Maybe a truer meaning would be a journey in progress, for this plane were on is but just a respite from the still long journeys ahead. Write on my friend, we may leave a mark behind to show we were here.
Perhaps a little smudge, or even getting famous will surely come when we’re dead and can’t make any money out of it. lol Seriously, it is the doing of what we do that is the gift, I have no qualms about that; I am what I am, and nothing can change that. And as you say, but a hick-up in a much longer journey. Thanks Vincent.