Poetry

It surely can’t all be about me
I repeat as I mark this territory
Ya know it surely can’t all be about me
I live a life to be free of ego's fees
And its compulsions and disease
And its repulsions of what could please
When they're based on ignorant ironies
But it surely can’t all be about me

And gray areas come and go as they always have
Leaving familiar colors which offer a bath
Absorption of them recalls a time when
Time meant nothing to me: living infinite zen
No symbols could comprise
My attempts to contrive
A notion of wholesome nudity
To travel at once in flesh and memory
To carve with each beat a space in which to be free

Equating exaltation to manifestation
Our story bears out the price of that crime
Against ourselves, our potential to heal
And out ability to judge what is real
Through accountability
Like how I know at death your eyes will see
Through me and through my hands
And how it surely can't all be about me

It starts again - this is where the last beginning ends
I’m in for the change so I will keep my range
Cause I’m already strange and there exists a danger
That I’ll ignore my part - forget to live my art
Or I'll choke at every start or applaud my every fart
Or I’ll vomit on my friends
These kinds of thoughts they never end
But they’re the only excuse I see
For writing poetry