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How Unfair (midlife fear)

How unfair
Only the wealthy truly live
The rest of us take a job
just to survive, uncomfortably.
The job devours most of our time, 
even days away are spent
unconscious or dazed
as we stare into our backyards,
a graveyard for our dreams,
or looking at the home, 
what we’ve settled for
settling in
Midlife takes hold
and the regrets we’ve been fighting
begin to win
and we feel guilty for thinking
the what ifs.
Guilt-tripped for not being appreciative;
for wanting more.
We just want to live.

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Blue and Green

The green of trees 
Against the blue of sky
reminds me of days, years,
Passed by;
Of trampolines 
Swimming pools
and waking up on a friend’s
couch
awaiting the day to unfold.

A time where thoughts of the future
did not scare me. 
Where I still stood behind the lines
in the sand
I drew for myself.
We are so different:
the me then and the me now.

Still, the trees invade the sky
a clash of bright and dark green
against an empty, blue nothing
forever above me.

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this cage

One day soon I will have my way. 
At least once I’d like to say
I am content. 

I numb myself for days. 
I am awake for days
Distracting my mind
I find a kind 
of careless blank
behind 
the eyes, despise the bank
of endless worry.
No need to worry
my misgivings 
are unsigned.

Then I’m alone
Situations I’ve designed
unwind in my mind
wishes to rewind
resurface.
So unkind how I remind
myself of all of my 
faults, failings, flaws,
flies in the ointment
disappointment.
Life feeding me doubts
bouts and battles
All I can do is rattle
this cage
and choke on this rage
that desperately wishes
to spoil the joy of my fellow man. 
Until I can 
put my mind at ease

At least
I have some peace…
My animosity
vanishes for a while
I can smile;
diversion until the cycle
begins again.

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At My Teeth

Thousands of things, 
At my teeth
Begging to be let out
and I keep them there. 
So they retreat
crawling back, defeated,
They return to their prison. 
My brain. 
My hell.

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Cycles

With every new day,
we breathe in more baggage
and exhale more damage. 

We destroy what we can’t use.
We cry for the bridges we ourselves have burned.
Erecting statues in the names of fools
And we chastise those who see with different eyes.
Our cycle never ends.

We spin on this rock
And inwardly, we spin,
Spiraling into some madness
we have found.
Whatever it is 
crawling, and scratching
inside us
It wants to survive. 
So that others do not. 

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Empty Pockets

It doesn’t work.
Wanting anything…
You can’t have it
take your hands back
put them in your
empty pockets.

You can be something big
they teach us.
Be anything you want
when you grow up.
Then you grow up
To find out
what they 
left out.
So put your hands
in your empty pockets
And move on.

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Bridge Out

I’m imagining it
It’s dark out and I’m somewhere off the road.
The only light
comes from the high-beams of a car
aimed at where I’m standing. 
A shovel in my hand, reluctant.
Bits of grass and soil
covering up my dreams,
My eyes are on the hole
I’m filling in. 
Reality standing in the dark with me,
making sure I fulfill my duty. 

Bury it, boy. 
We’ve got things to do. 

Things I don’t want to do, I think
to myself
Things I shouldn’t have to do.

But there are no second chances
All we have are glances
And the world does not stop
for us to make a choice.
We run screaming towards a future
And we don’t see 
The signs along the road.
Bridge out.
Slow down.

There is no need to rush,
life is pulling us, kicking and screaming.

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Leaves

Everyone leaves at some point.
They get tired of waiting, they find a new path,
and
sometimes they simply just leave this life
behind. 

What they give me are memories.
Little echoes reverberating throughout the cracks
and cliffs of my mind.
A constant and vigorous reminder of where I’ve been
and
what has happened,
good or bad,
so far. 

There are times when these things left behind
tell me that some day
I’ll be leaving, too.

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Party

Party in my head
I was never invited
I can feel the pulse
The confusion is settled in
And I wonder why it’s not waking
everyone around me.

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Humanity

There are days
Few of them, perhaps,
where I feel a need 
to fit inside of you.

Most days
I just want to 
tear you apart.