There’s something about artistic expression
That does it for me,
I’ve written in the past about trips,
Of being drunk,
About stupors, loneliness,
And feeling sunk.
Never have I ever written about
missing somebody I love,
With swirls and shivers abound,
Never have I felt as sick as now,
Sick in the stomach and down,
And I will not.
Pulled into the world, I awaken,
A flood of thoughts breach my brain,
Bit-by-tiny-bit, I continue to acclimate,
I brush aside the sun on my eyes,
In a moment, I find my brush,
Repeated strokes, up and down.
My eyes wander, out the window, to the fields,
Catches movement — two lambs, too little,
One black and white, another white and black,
Eating away intently at the grass,
One of them stop and walk up to the other,
The other knows this, knows what is coming,
They butt heads and have a go at it,
A little tinge wells up inside me,
And back they go back to the grass eating,
I go as well, to get on with my day.
It’s afternoon, the sun beats down almost with a grudge,
As I pace, out a window I catch a glimpse,
The lambs – separated, forelegs bent, face to grass,
Under the shade of a canopy,
Dutifully chewing,
I pass by, nary any room for paying heed,
To trivialities such as these,
My head brimming with thoughts,
Of sorts, any and all.
The evening rolls around,
I find myself sauntering in the terrace,
Having declared that the work day has ended,
I look towards the horizon and everywhere in between,
Again, as to be expected, I find my lambs unwavering,
Pulling on the same grass,
Or maybe different ones, who’s to tell,
Luckily, I catch them again, in the midst of their head-butts,
I feel the tinge, so foreign, the same as the morning.
In hindsight, I let the fleeting flee,
I don’t live the tinge, I let it leave,
I start wondering why we don’t live,
As those lambs do,
The lambs, that seemingly have but three options,
Butt heads, eat or bleat,
Don’t they live a richer life with just these three.
Us, more complex, with options unlimited,
Find ourselves always on the brink of malice,
A little ways off the edge of despair,
Half way into frustration,
Plenty into anger,
Swimming in an endless sea of doubt.
Could we not decide to live off of what we find,
Tell tales as we lay sprawled on open fields,
Bother others when nothing catches our fancy,
Butt heads when it gets a little boring,
Roll as we go, and go as we roll.
Sharp-lined face, fixated gaze,
Focused, predator not prey,
Wide shoulders, rising solar plexus,
Effective, efficacious demeanor,
Wide midriff, sturdy pelvis,
Legs roll forward, a precise machine,
One unit, geometric, decisive,
A man honed.
Blotted Slurs 