An Ode To Nothing

A single tear rolls from my basin of sorrows.
The cup of my despair as large as the moon
That hangs outside my window in the banner of night.
My misery so small . . . . some would think.

I am a casual of hate swallowed and lodged in the rotary of time.
The world is a cancer.

I am mute and do not talk the tongue of the world.
But to myself, a confused (cfonudes) companion.
I yawn inside a tired testimony and ache with anguish.

Who's for a little more pessimism eh?
Every body is searching for some flicker of genius
Probing my private knowledge. Testing to see if I am one
Of the clever ones, but I am only tired. Nothing more.
Unless something shall come of
Nothing.

I am not a tortured poet, not even a poet
Throw it . . . . away. That's what we should
Do with our hearts.

Anyway back to the poem, where was I,
Despair . . . . oh yes.
I am an empty drum,
In discordant beat and heavy pound.
And angry at the world.
Dancing to solemn tune.
Negotiating with the humdrum of my future.

Dreams in cages, ambition tarnished ,
No room to try my wings. Wongs. (a slip of the key but a nice sounding mistake.)
Blunders open many doors and wounds as well.
My wings ache, expectations like weights to my feet,
Responsibility anchors my arms.
Tied with too many strings, a puppet to the land.
But, I want to soar about the heavens in a gown of white flight.
In seas of weightlessness, oceans of my own dreaming.
I will not be a messenger bird, but a mourning dove.
(this section of the poem ends here in the space provided )

With a spirit damp I smile a heavy smile, and watch
As Noah sails away from a wasted world in a sinking ark.

I dream about leaving today and joining the circus
- but who will take me dreams seriously?
(or my poetry for that matter)
Row row row my dreams gently down the stream of . . . .
Consciousness. Methinks me shoulds stop writing. STOP.

I can't I am in a roll,
My mind in infinite spin, my imagination so flammable.
An eden of ideas, a seed of thought
Has now become an orchard of ideas.
Branching and forking beyond rational realms.
Towards a greater system of light.
The shade, like a million cool kisses.
A sanctuary of fruits, ripe delights to appease my appetite.

Walking a tight rope of reason.
I write like a maniac but have nothing to say.
I wish I could better fashion my poetry.

The shadows are my reflection, dark
Pools of unknowing that wander in black passage
On walls and though my mind.

Am I writing all of this or merely thinking it?
I wonder what you are thinking as you read my poem because I am not.
Writing what, this? . . . but there's something else on this page now.
Has my thinking moved on or is it just an extension of thought?
But I am still thinking about what I wrote about thinking.
Hmmm, perhaps a wasted thought.
I should have given more of that, that is thought, to to the purpose of my poem.
A penny for my think in and out of consciousness, it makes no difference
And speech has such a sensuous figure.
This hole poem is an assault, a trauma to my mind and probably yours too.

To be or not to be that is the misconception.
Missing links tying knots, the meaning escapes detection.
These questions are questionable and the answers unspeakable.
Who asked you anyway?

Please Note: This poem contains some spelling errors, however all are intentional.