Damn Well Will

I have not written in a week; I could not produce an honest word.

I have spent most of my life devouring wisdom from others. Only now I am at loss because I know no wisdom. I cannot honestly differentiate what is true anymore, what is important.

I am not saying this out of self-pity and I don't expect validation of a passing thought that may or may not be true in a minute, in an hour, tomorrow, the near future.

But I find that the more I live, the more people's opinions or ideas of structure do not equal the truth.

The beauty about wisdom is that what is wise should remain true. And yet, I do not know what is true anymore. I only know that even if I have to fake it to make it, I damn well will.

Sometimes you have to work hard to be happy

Sometimes you have to work hard to be happy.

Sometimes you have to swallow up the diamond stilletto bitch that is Self Pity.

She'll trick you.

Be wary of her fat powdery bosom that makes you think twice whether it's just too much perfume instead of a decayed soul when you can't stop wheezing and rubbing your eyes.

And when she brings her friend, Jealousy, the royal wine bearer who will dilute your crystal mind with images of false glories, kill her quick.

But watch out for her pet
Inaction
will get you faster than you can say, "WTF is that?"

The Shot: My patent smile

Don't take

a picture

and patent my smile as your

happiness.

Shoot me again

and again

until

the muscles relax.

There.

That's when you get the perfect

shot.

The Jolt

Last night I commanded a dream.

The dream to deliver a solution to my reality. The answers are inside you. That's what they all say so I thought mockingly, 'why not be bold in my tantrum.'

Lately, I've become quite good at demanding things and like the Sorceress conjuring a love spell, my wish came true.

I dreamt I was desired. And though I laughed and smiled no, our clothes vanished, and we were exposed.

No shame fell when the lights shined overcast and we were discovered delighting in each other. We wrestled like children, pure and trustingly soft in our caresses.

Mere strangers, shocked and scorning, possessed no power. We played on.

When the 6 AM ring
jolted me back into consciousness, I felt the descending weight of
fear.

I was a child again
in my mother's bed; the imprint of her form still pressed in the pillow.

All my pouts had not changed my present state. What trickery is this! She says.

But before the jester could give Her Majesty a banter, I got up, placed the shackles of the mundane on my back, painted my lips a sunset magnolia, took out my bus pass and went to work.