existing is a chore

a life lived tinged

with a melancholy borne 

into a third child fending 

figuring, flailing observant 

quietly backing

into the white-space warmly

then the phone rang…

I was fit to burst 

with stories I dreamt; 

calm eves of puzzling 

night sweats into coherent 

língua from the tip of my tongue 

spilling from wrists bleeding ink

nourished by black tea and biscuits 

licking melted butter from the plate

you, in the other room gaming

barely past thirty, I had dreams 

she bop

I admire those with Identity 

those who know themselves enough 

it’s a thing I never thought, found

though I searched low 

never finding the high of life

in books and inwardness

acquiring knowledge 

am I what I am or do?

and what/who am I anyway? 

am I my likes or tendencies?

when they are middling to fair 

neither here nor there

am I simply the science?

Birdie

the awe of her existence 

puts pressure in my chest 

air in my tires

where to do, what to go

this life is not a real life 

if it where a real life 

I would be told 

where to do and what to go

piddle-paddle

there are no regrets

decisions are not un-decided

there is only The -  

perpetual motion of moving forward

A - zigzag line that loops and twirls