Bodhi

I’ve been so damn tired lately.
A gust of wind, wheezing.
My mellow angst is retiring,
Shuffling up a flight of stairs,
To bed.

I’ve since lost the gift of innocence,
Cherished in the eyes of prevalent parents.
I’ve tainted the immaculate perception,
That is still held by some of my peers.

Derived in a house of sin,
The honest hostess drips cyanide into our breath.
A channeling of awareness, I am held in proximity,
Careful to avoid her persistent hospitality.

And why should I?
Has there ever been a time for penance?
Will my fortes grand ever come to me,
Loneliness in its eyes?
(Unless I’m beaten with a confession,
Over the head,
No)

Maybe its time to realize,
To finally wipe the glaze from my eyes.
Conception is borderline hungry,
Suspicious of my toned obscenity.
It seems like up to me.

Up to me.
What the hell does that help with?
Maybe it’s a way to confine a loose strain of thought,
A way to sculpt a fair, defined boundary,
Around my person,
A barbed fence.

If I keep avoiding and exploring,
Then shouldn’t an unbearable end surface?
Should that shy light poke out from the brush,
Ready to guide me like a rugged merchant?
I might as well get busy living or get busy dying,
As any man with sense would say.