The soul of a second


I love writing 
because it reveals
my soul,

but I must admit,
our torrid love affair is often loathsome,
for reasons the same.


I am nothing. 
I am the god of the ocean 
and all in between.

I am the constant flow
of energy,
of excess,
of dismay. 

I am a god of unfairness, 
of decay.

I treat myself 
as the war times might,
a battle of self-reflection,
and self-loathing, too.

I'm fickle and flighty, 
but I'm a warrior, too.

I'm unsure of myself,
as I follow doubt
whenever it calls out to me,

but I can work my hands, 
and I can work on my knees,

and, “the Best is ahead,”
they've said,
centuries ago.

Now,
they say,
“our Shit is only
gonna get better.”

And I'm a believer, 

only because with age 
comes jade,

each year, less painful 
than the last,

with age comes enlightenment;
a healthy fear of death, 
a healthy fear of a wasted life,
a healthy fear of not doing it right,

and I am a seeker of my existence,

an inane question to pose,
but poignant to answer;

I am a humiliator;
a liar, a thief, 
a soft-spoken son, 
a rattler of grief,

and If I learn how to swim, 
I'll teach myself not to drown,

but my ties to my friendships 
and families are not so strong, 

I have been the instigator,
the propulsion of hurt,

half of it is living with myself,
half of it is living like someone else, 

I don't want to feel this way.

To weep with the sorrowful, lamenting few, 

to search for the existentialist
nothingness,

to hold my head in shame,
and never look inside,
to see what I'm made of;

I am not the instigator.
I am not the deceiver.

I am a man,
with ideas in his head, 

but I imagine that sounds familiar, 

I imagine you have felt the waning call
of the sorrowful,
lamenting few,

waxing into the night,
becoming soft,
like the coyote howl, 

soft like the whistle of a distant train,
disappearing
into the night,

and it’s soft for that second.

And for that second,
I feel it all.