Many Hands

Too many hands
in mine.

I can
barely keep my own
doing the right
and good things.

Sharp
but broken.

Sharp
but rough in the course I sail
or walk.

Every shining
bug, rock
or sunset takes me off and into
stopped time.

Stopped time
where peace be had
but is only mine
and the world
just keeps wondering where I've been
and why
oh why I haven't kept up.

Too many hands
waiting on mine.

Too into the small beauties
that should have made up this world
but really don't.

Can't focus
on career and accomplishment

seems
   so much work
to just have a good grave stone.

Just can't buy in,

helps so
to not have the money,
but still,

still can't get fully out from under the weight
of all the eyes that see what I can't do.

Let me go
let me go
let go.

Please
let go.

Please
my
oh my
let yourself go.

Too many hands
have the lesser mores of life
handled...

handled better than
I will ever
except maybe in my children's eyes

can't compete
and be anything more than another

but to be me
to be me
might just be something a touch more
than what I've been.

that no one
no one
else
no one else
can

A Left in Fog

I think I have lost
a few
too many letters,

either that or
the dictionary is mad
and removing
my words one by one,

and taking the world's memory with it.

So many things I'd say
better
if I still had the feeling
I did while first feeling them.

So many dreams
written to memory
but only well enough to know they cursed me.

what good is perspective
only to leave me to taking a left turn in the fog.

Still only able to see
what is in view
from here,

and then
only the side showing.

Just a Piece

Who
still cares?

Who still cares
what,

what
this means?

Books
now whatever the last
download says.

Who knows
if I thought it
or forgot it,

maybe it never was,

or maybe it was just my 100 words
of the thousand that picture told

who cares.

Its me

Its me
the cold
and all I walked you into.

Its me
and all the hope
failed.

Its me
and all the dead flowers,
still seeds despite the wear.

And all the dreams
we could have had be something more
if only we had them ten years less than now.

Its me and all the wind
blowing up and down its own storm
taking water from here to there.

Us just small sticks,
victims of chance,
even if only in half of an unfinished truth.

Its me
the cold
and all I walked you into
and not out of.

Its me
the unsahaven
and rough
crap.

Its me
on a Sunday
two days into a weekend
pissed its over.

Its me
and even if you still take me now
I fail to believe it fully.

Still one eye out the window
for the bus I missed taking you on
to somewhere prouder than what i give you today.

Its me
the cold
and all I walked into.

Wondering
what this is
if not love
in its ungreatful
but constant way.

Finding its
home
even here, or despite
the reasons not to
because the heart
only knew one state of being
that remained through all the ups and downs.