set adrift

lost again

mere starlight

to guide

gazing upward

holding fast

to hope

this battered vessel

may still

find its way

upon your shore

The year died and then breathed again - like I, phoenix rising, baggage clearing. Plane almost landed. Soft or hard, bring it on. Night darkest before dawn indeed, let that dawn on you as your mind's sun awakens again, please. The year is waxing. That ain't a warning. Quite the opposite - not taxing. That proposition's simmering in your cranium, the crowd in your frontal lobe stadium roaring, the flow state waters pouring again. Rise and shine, friends.

In the midst

Of my frenetic pace

A stranger’s calm sentiment

Brought a smile to my face

“May the holiday be gentle for you”

So now, my friend

I extend that same wish to you

I feel like an instaslut,

craving that momentary

facade of love.

An introverted attention

whore

hiding shamefully behind

my unemotional closet door,

where my heart is dying

for a quick fix,

all you have to do is click

and for awhile

I won't be so hopesick.

Need to find a connection

as disgust fights

with my desperation.

I halfway pause,

holding still,

watching for

the confirmation,

that I can continue

my life again,

in this world that insists upon

the constant spoils

of self gratification.

disowned.

pwned.

I’ve realized that I’m alone,

My seat of stone

A private throne

I’ve come undone

The end of my run

She showed your ID

So very proudly

A new job, great

I feel sudden hate

For Suddenly, Rowan F

Was Rowan T

The last straw of all

My name to return

Like your sweet sweet

Brother

May he burn

Burn with the rivers

Of hate

that now burn me

My soul

Suddenly light

Suddenly light because

I’ve ceased to care

My fatherhood,

Vanished

Into thin air

I’m just a man again after

All

Nowhere further for me

To fall

Don’t pity me

Or come back later

Find another

Familius pater

That ship has sailed

Into the dark

That story has reached

Its final arc

There is no greater

Act of disdain

Than to give the old man

Back his name

You may wonder

And yes, it’s true

I do still

Think of you

But only on the days

When the sky is blue

As it's a reminder

That I’m free of you

I sit here knowing I have a story to tell, paralyzed by choices. Shall I type on the old Underwood? Long hand with a fountain pen? Directly into this soulless contraption?

Does it matter? I'm reasonably sure there is a different muse on a computer, analytical and clinical. Very judgmental. The muse of the Underwood smokes cigarettes in a long holder, says "drat" when she is frustrated, glitters with impatience. The muse of the foutain pen is a langorous hippy with generous lips and bosom, rear end for days on end.

What is my process and does it even matter? I am feeling, and somehow, some combination of words will make it stop. It needs to stop.

And there I have done it...on a soulless contraption.