29)
Hello dear, Rogue
at least I can say
that I know you well enough to say
that I know you well
then, of course,
I also know you well enough to say
that I can call you me –
A rogue,
distant
not dishonest, or discolored,
but seasoned and neither innocent
nor able to claim ignorance,
I understand your reasons
to separate
or to stray
or to stay away from the masses and keep away
from toxic “back and forth”
which take place on an everyday bases.
I see the common casualties
of those who live in indecision,
and yes, I take note of life
when lived on the fence.
Eventually
you fall from this
and land on one side
or the other
in an otherwise
unfavorable way.
I know . . .
But
Name someone who
has never been hurt
or never been burned by their choices
and I will show you
someone who never lived
or perhaps,
maybe they weren’t paying attention,
which might be better.
I know about the windows of the soul,
or the eyes, which look at the world,
beautiful as ever,
stained in some cases
but equally as beautiful
like the stained glass
on the windows
of her personal Church
or otherwise known
as her sanctuary
called the mind,
and the room in her heart
to house her soul.
I admit to my faults
and sins, and I admit to my wrongs
and confess to their nature
with true regret,
true conviction,
and with all my heart;
same as the act of contrition,
the following is not an act, as I say
I am heartily sorry
for having offended thee.
I once wrote
a broken soul can only care
for its own, to which,
I mean, if the eyes
are the windows of the soul –
then yes,
this is where I would climb through
to find warmth
and take what I could
without replenishing the value
of love from the hand.
I can see where
selfish, self-centeredness
lead me away
or hurt the soul
who cared and dared
but me, I never dared as much
which frightens me.
And again, with all of my heart;
I am heartily sorry.
It is not easy
being alone, now,
away, in fear
that I am the least common
denominator, or that I am the problem
and in fear, that I am endlessly
unmatchable.
I resign my fire
and mute my cannons
and to find peace,
I moved, astray
gone away, or went missing,
even from myself, a rogue
not innocent nor guilty
but aware of the trauma
or the tensions
and the wake of my past.
I remember what was said to me:
Progress, not perfection.
Pay attention to the effort
not the outcome.
Take it slow
or as it comes,
one day at a time;
and yes, I know
what it means
to make amends.
Farewell
to the island of self
and farewell
to the hell
that is self-inflicted.
Come now,
you and me . . .
the stains in our souls
have left depth to our eyes
and yours, of course,
are more beautiful
than I can imagine.
30)
I am not so old,
at least not as far
as old men go.
But I am old enough to know
and old enough to remember
and old enough to recall
the long nights
in the city
and the bright lights
from the other side
of the Hudson
shining along the top
of the moving river
as if that side
was another country
and me, I was a countryman
looking to find my queen
that is, if I was a king
or even a prince.
I was looking to find
the roots of my soul.
I am not so far removed
from the nightlife
or the walks I took
or the times when I was fed up
or when I walked away from the crowd
and chose to see the truth
instead of fake my stance
and act or pretend
to be like everybody else.
Give me liberty
or give me death,
said a man
named Patrick Henry
when giving a speech about
the colonies –
And me?
Give me freedom
or give me death, I say
because, dare I say this,
I found myself to be homeless, or aimless
and “countryless” in a sense but,
I know what it means to walk around
or to live while dying alive.
I know what it means
to hold back
or fail to try
or fail to speak
or fail to love.
I know what this means
because cowardly thoughts
and insecurities
held my tongue
to keep my soul apart
and keep my heart
safely,
and keep me from being burned
or being the fool
or living.
Ever learn something
and think,
I could have gone the rest of my life
and not known about this . . .
and all would be fine –
Hello, and good morning
dear Rogue., or dear Me
perhaps now is the time
that we take down the wall
and view the dawn
like we did before
when love was still pure,
and you and me,
we were eager to
dance in some downtown
place, with a Salsa music
or a Latin beat,
and the sweat from our body
would be a celebration
met by the kiss
of the most beautiful woman
we have ever seen.
God,
have you ever seen anyone as beautiful as her?
Do you mean me?
Or are you talking to yourself again?
No, I mean me,
She is like no other
and that she
is you.
The Written Addiction 