Possibly Impossible

Real, what is real?
Is it the dream of desperation in the night?
Searching for the road that will lead to safety,
out of the darkness into the light,
confusion, swirling mists, anger released, anger betrayed
All is silent, no pending opportunity awaits
except to write, write like a mad woman
stay up all hours of the night
with the clock ticking the seconds
till the dawn when the reality of possibility becomes impossible
and my words become swallowed in absurdities
where I grasp at the branches of my family tree
and find that I have been wandering in volcanic ash, in lava
stepping ever so carefully down the path where no one will follow
the only way is forward, each glance behind costs me
so I shut off my emotions
and the death of the scrawny kitten rouses a pittance of the sympathy with which it deserves.
I need to sail
I need to write become so quick at my craft
that I can produce the torrent of logical illogical masses of words
to feed my family the bread of substance.
Or else search among the meager crumbs of employment
to lock myself in a cage, a cage and I need to do it and be good at it
I need to understand the mysteries of pomp and circumstance
or else idly wander in the streets with the lonely voice of the lost angel
a messenger of mercy from a God who exists, the glimmering hope of my last cry.


I wrote this I believe towards the end of 2009 before I was able to find a job. It kind of makes me nostalgic that I could write so passionately, though it is the sweat of desperation that drives me to write like this sometimes. I still feel somewhat the same way about employment... ;)