I can feel time slowly slipping through my fingers
frictionless to hold a second for a second moment
before falling through the ether into near nothingness
imprinted on continuum
a seed carried life to life
until conditions are right
to ripen the fruit on an unsuspecting self
— I am sorry
But how can it be helped?
I cannot squeeze this self into another
instead I chip away at delusions
from the inside out
destroying deluded doubt
and always at play
never a day spent away from refuge
and still I fight a deluge
of intense suffering
always threatening
to drown a silly me
how can it be
at war with three
extract My poisons, please!
Oh doctor of holy medicine,
I am a sick being
full of rotten feeling
still misunderstanding compassion
still giving with miserly ration
still confused at apparent separation
what can I do
I sit and contemplate emptiness
I feel like less and less
I can impress others
I merely offend
with no ability to comprehend
how meaningless it all is
without a pure intention
to worry about such brief condition
when I could be creating
a beautiful future feeling
and care for other instead
please, mend my broken head
Please, mend my broken heart
so that I may finally start
to love, to give happiness
and understand what comes does part
although appearing, no longer relating
to mistaken imputation
and while all expectations break
and friends do talk and fuck and fake
until the joy becomes real
and pain is permanently healed
may my pure virtue be revealed
through blessings be shared
and eventually may I care
only for other, selflessly
give me such pure appearance
so with happiness, I’ll dance
and, just perhaps,
give pure love chance after chance
The Halfwit Writer 