the day i forgot to be sad

This day is the first
I have not shed a tear, though
I crashed as hard
As I felt I would
For I forgot to be sad

I have had days, before
Where I forgot to be mad
Or angry or bad, or just plain
Bored, but this was the first day
I forgot to be sad,

There is no sense in denying
I am tired, for I am
Bored, a bit of ennui goes
A long way, to explain in my own head
Why, but not all the way
Today, forgot to be sad,

This is just another cycle
Another round-robin thought,
Just another broken record
Of something I forgot
I am no hero, no wonder
No saint.
There’s a really long list,
Of all the things that I ain’t.

I ain’t no happy-go-lucky free for all,
Travelling salesman
Bar in a brawl,
I’m not alone,
Yet no one else, adult
Shares my space
The whole of my hole is mine
Alone, smiling in the knowledge
That this is my way.
This is my way.
And someday I’ll remember to be sad,
But not today.

Like some others who make space
For the songs of the West,
That great call to duty
To cash in like the rest,
Some fight the good fight,
Leaving smiles in their wake,
Their happiness soul-deep
No drink do they take
Before ensuring that all those once around
Have had their fill first,
These happy souls have I found.

These and others I’ve seen,
Read, heard, kissed, cried,
I’ve felt the closeness touch,
Watched my own tears, they’ve dried
I’ve sent good ones away,
Held warped lives close
Tried hard to hold on
Stayed longer than most.

Fought valiantly with
My family, inside
Quiet voices of hunger
I can just barely hide.

There is no way out,
No abracadabra spell,
No running free from the blood
My blood, that I spilled.

Red claret is mine,
Shame of deep heart,
Shown all too often
And too often thrown out
Like the sad melodramatic crap
That I write
No matter how hard
Try as I might,
This thought circles back
I taste the sense that I lack,
For today I forgot to be sad
And will pay dearly later for that.

At last,
The tears come, not too late,
Not torrents of soul
Or cries against fate,
But the poorly held poise
Of life’s old-young boy,
Not beaten as yet,
Not yet, beaten
For today I forgot to be sad.
Until now.
I remembered to cry.
Now if only
If only
I could remember…

The Ride

I ride the wave of infinite causal possibility.  Opportunities peak their head over the edge of the fabric of reality before slipping back down into the world of probability.  With so many people in such a small space come the dreams of many crowding out the voice of one.  At the same time this morass of psychic noise acts as the muse for artists and singers, writers and poets, musicians and lovers.  They flock to these warm epicentres of humanity lifeblood, like moths to the light, dancing around the bright flame, some burning and dying, hanging in dark corners like dead moths on the window sill, others gaining momentum to escape velocity, firing themselves at the moon in a bright arcing flame, reverse-shooting star as we sit and watch them burn, pondering our own existence, marking ourselves as failures for not escaping the flame, even more so for not dancing close enough to the light.  Not everyone is meant to be a moth.  Some are butterflies, angels, beetles, worker bees, queens and warriors.  We are all beautiful and necessary, for human moths would not have an earth to run away from towards the moon, without us here to hold it still.

tales for adults, told by kids pretending to be adults, for adults pretending to be kids