a life fraught with living

a poem

In those rare minutes
of true silence
I sit and wonder why
the good times seem to worsen
all bad and battered things
that follow in their wake

Oh tell me you have felt
that extra-bitter truth of losing love
having known its sweetness

Tell me, you too
have torn the fruit tree
limb from limb,
sucked the nectar dry

and found yourself
with nothing
but a pit of your own making

wide enough
for you to spin
with arms outstretched
and still catch hold of nothing

But maybe
one can hope
that in the inverse
lies life’s twisted consolation:
The bad times often serve
to make the good times better, brighter

sifting through the silt
to dredge up shiny, lustrous things

Or maybe
the Good and Bad exist
not to stoke the other
not in spite
but in perfect ignorance

And you remain

the only point where they both touch

your heart beating
good-bad, good-bad,
good-bad, still undecided.

Oh, this burden of knowing them both!
this burden of toeing the line between
like a sea-worn rope, tethered to nowhere

And you are the tide,
always the tide

and maybe in the best of times
you are the ship as well,
and maybe in the worst of times
you cling,
a barnacle to this rusty, shell-shocked world

afraid you are too much of both
scared you are not enough of either

Yet, in truth, the thing I fear the most
above all else
is the day
when I stop caring what I am.
not much is more listless
or depraved
than an indifferent soul.

So, I’m content to toe the line
for now

towards the Good
Pulling, tearing
away from the Bad

And maybe I may never come to rest,
And maybe I may never truly learn,
And maybe I may never know myself beyond my name

But maybe—oh I survive in the hope—
that it’s enough
just to know I’m trying.