Wisdom

You still hear that voice
that betrays and berates
and you question your sanity
and curse the fates.
What solace you find
in these trivial traits,
with the guise of satisfaction
they surely create.

But there's no wisdom
in masks or charades,
and no wisdom
in poisons or blades.
The shock of the feeling
reminds you in fades
like the sun and the moon
in their daily trades.

You repeat those words
like incantations
because there are miracles
in recitation,
but that magic's not in syllables;
it's in the sensations;
it's in your blood;
it's in the vibrations.


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I can't believe how inactive I've been. It's depressing. It's mostly because work is tiring me out. It's leaving me feeling quite uninspired which means that I either need a vacation or I need a change...or both.

In any event, I started writing this poem back in December / early January. It was only four lines up until about last week. Now it feels about right. It can actually be taken, at least by my count, in two totally contradictory ways. So, have a ball.

I am also trying to honor one of my 2011 goals by writing a new vignette. I just haven't decided whether it's not or even whether it's worthy of posting, but I'd really love to post anything that isn't a poem right now!







"I know there's no wisdom in razors and I know whatever I thought I'd found was really just a mask."

"I bite my tongue every time you come around 'cause blood in my mouth beats blood on the ground." Incubus Blood On The Ground