I’ve always wondered 
when the lightbulb 
goes off is
it before or
after stupid shit
is it victory 
or regret that 
finds the switch 
and for some 
I suppose they
suffer in darkness 
me I carry
a candle and 
box of matches 

This my luxury 
of life indecision 
no longer chained 
or charged choosing 
now I can 
wait and debate 
do I don’t 
I must I
maybe not then 
and back I’ve 
gone to the 
swing tied to
the oak outside 
the one of
my childhood where 
nothing else mattered 
and no one 
else cared just 
to and fro

Imagine burden 
you know 
that weight 
heaped upon 
your shoulders 
what if
it was 
placed there 
so that 
you and 
no one 
else was
able to 
carry it 
what of
this weight 
then maybe 
it’s feather
or flake 
and nothing 
else really 
than that 

It’s interesting 
that people 
do walk
through life 
immersed in 
the fiction
of mind
absent to
oblivious of
the life 
they live 
either they
don’t like 
or would 
prefer not 
so they 
write and
cast themselves 
in the 
role of 
their lifetime 

We are art
each of us 
some are paintings 
others a drawing 
I a doodle 
in another’s noodle 
not an afterthought 
more a garnish 
something to tease
maybe even appease 
a thing enjoyed
either before or 
long after later 
but never then
for that then 
belongs to another