don’t drown
don’t drown
don’t drown
the waves are higher and you’re fatigued
beyond a reasonable limit. time to stand
still and stay afloat and relax your arms
and never give up but stop the fight
don’t drown
don’t drown
don’t drown
Author: Roger Mugs
Welp
poetryoff the wagon again
as feels right given the circumstance
of the burning world
who i am and what i done
poetryloss of the things that define(d) me
and the lack of feelings about the loss
now define me
no that’s not true
i’m angry as fuck that that was me
for so long
who i am can change, but what I do
must
change or all those who love me are in for one hell of a shitshow
zen
poetryholding everything I can see so
loosely it could all fall out of my hands
and loose enough I would be okay with that
just standing here. arms full. barely holding on
because gripping too tight is too big a commitment for things so unsure
a few thing here, in this pile, look so shiny, I’d love to pocket them
but that would be to assume they won’t eat through my pockets and fall to the ground when I’m not looking
no
I need to hold it so loosely it could all fall out of my hands
zen. I tell myself.
fucking zen.
head down, focused, no longer hoping for the best but believing in it nonetheless
poetrythe hardest thing about knowing too much
is understanding the impact it may have on
those you’ve worked your ass off to support
but you push through because you also
know that often you don’t have all the info and there have been doezens of times thus
far where you knew what was coming
the doom
and it never came.
the hardest part about knowing too much
is dealing with the pain you will someday
inevitably cause
there is a positive outcome for everyone if we just push long enough, hard enough, and don’t give the fuck up.
can I hang in there and not give the fuck up?
pretty sure this is the end
poetryof a thing i’ve labored over for a long time now
and while it’s not yet a reality—the reality of it is sinking in
the foolishness of what got us here
the failures and the lack of sleep
we’ve built a thing of which we’re damn proud
and it will be time to lay it down and walk away
and we thought it was years in the future
and now it’s increasingly clear that it might be weeks
the failures and the lack of sleep and
the foolishness of what got here are
never far from my mind
sleep will come though, i say with some confidence
because long before the thing itself ended
resignation came.
you say sick, i say death
poetrya poem is all i can manage
the morning fog denies me anything more
as it grows thicker in my head
in over my head again like last time but this time a little deeper than last time hoping no one notices that i cant even hear them because i’m so far under
poetrya big step up comes with a massive serving of humble pie
and this time it’s mixed with pecans and sweet potatoes
so i’m probably not going to be able to avoid binging on it
there is a way i feel about
things i cannot control and
when i put my arm out
hoping to stop what’s in motion i
find seatbelts were created for a
reason and reason is usually in
the way of doing what’s actually
good
so i wake up again and head back in, stuffed full of pie
and carrying along my now worthless broken arm in a
sling across my front trying to look professional
professional: a difficult look for someone who has learned
to live contorted in to a pretzel with foot firmly stuck in
mouth.
professional: a difficult look for someone who has learned
that fighting overconsumption of self-induced humility is a
lost cause i’ll never win.
professional: a difficult look for someone who never wears socks
and finds the thought of underwear overwhelming.
but this is a big step up. a big step up they tell me. for reasons.
you can be effing anything
poetryyou can be anything you want to be
except happy. if you’re okay with fame
and power and prestige and did i mention
money?
sell your soul, but really it’s not necessary
the price is much much less than that because
i know you’ll settle
you can be anything you want to be
but don’t count on loving what you do.
few, if any, get that.
—
“What are you up to these days? It’s been forever?”
“Living the dream!”
“Oh great! What does that mean though?”
“I’m a used car salesman.”
“…”
i reckon this is a reckoning
poetrytoday there will be a reckoning and one of
us will not make it out
this is our baby, but it’s their’s as well and who are we to deny them their baby just because we love it too?
if one of must go, i selfishly hope it will be you.
perhaps your toxic attitude
was the reason for my fear
perhaps your concern was
perfectly well founded and you were only speaking truth
today more than we imagined possible will take place
change is coming
and one of us is about to be voted out.
when it works out
poetrywhen things go the way i really did anticipate
and someone is helped out by the words
proceeding from my mouth rather than destroyed
by them
i feel a certain amount of pride
though the pride is misplaced
and instead there should be thankful humility
that somehow my asinine nature wasn’t able to leak out and slowly spread all over the floor filling books and crannies with that stuff that is sweet for the sole purpose of molding and attracting ants
but yet, pride is what rears its ugly head
inadequacy
poetryi’m fairly certain…
no i definitely say it with certainty—
i’m failing at this on some scale i don’t yet understand
there are details here which i simply must be missing
and others out there who do it better than me
they understand the grind
they get the details
they are capable of sorting through all the bullshit
and what am i?
good at these other things i suppose
the wrong things?
i’m definitely fearful i can say it with certainty.
it feels like forever
poetrysince i carefully sat and wrote something
out with more than a thought
or a passing care for producing
words on a page
full of ideas and “word pictures”
the kind that make me gag
because what the hell is a word picture
instead i spend most days barely scraping
by with a written word intended to last
more than a few moments after which it
will literally be consumed and erased from
the record.
press on they say
as though i’m not busy pressing on elsewhere
as though i am just overwhelmed with time
to play with my word output
bullshit i say.
in remembrance of times i took my anger out on you
poetrywarmth from the winter sun hitting fifty eight degrees
in this dry land where the warmth is exacerbated by the lack of humidity
and our chairs don’t fold up
our feelings don’t dry when
they’re exposed to the sun even if we wish they would,
instead they’re like my shorts on a long run, long long after my shirt is soaked with sweat
and the moisture leaks in to my pants and causes outrageous chaffage in the midst of the simmerish-winter weather.
never a problem in the warm
when my nipples don’t chafe in the cold-sweat of my wool wrapped body
it’s not summer and dammit, it’s time I let you know by screaming of my frustrations to you
how the hell
poetryhow the hell
do I reconcile the foolishness of my day to day
with the reality of the world?
how do I fight for what I care about
when the world just laughs, cries.
ignores me
when everything else seems hopeless
at least I’m pushing forward
pressing on
and chasing hard after other cliches
I desperately hope are cliches for good reason
if i
poetryif i better understood what was happening
perhaps i could control it better,
keep from being swept away
look forward to the right things
have hope where i should
if i cared less i could do more
if i was humble more i would move straighter in exactly the direction I thought we should all go and then everything could just line up and work and be easier than it is and there would be profound rest instead of mild dread.
it would be nice
if i could just… somehow…
hip hop will make you (jump jump)
poetrywood legs and broken glasses
you wade down this river on tubes
gliding on your asses
the water freezes your arms
and your legs
you never know if you’re just
someone’s misplaced pegs
pegs out of place at this job
pegs out of place in a mob
breakfast, dinner, more broken glasses,
on your couch like a worthless blob
but you live life you get up every day
you work hard, or (so you think) till you hit the hay
and your girl she smiles at you faintly
and your dog still listens to you gaily
now it’s the weekend, screw on your leg
and get down to the river you worthless peg
these tubes aren’t going to wade by themselves
this river is effing cold even for elves
that shit
poetrydone gone and hit the fan
like a flood in Louisiana it was no small deal
and now (due to the fact that the fan was on high)
shit done gone and been flung all over all your other shit
time to clean that shit up and get on with your shitty life
exit
poetrytoday I heard a bright man give terrible testimony
if what he values is truly what matters I’m damned
if what he advises is true I’m saved
if how he lives is right, l’ll never find rest.
never.
these two weeks I give you up
poetryfor these two weeks
and these alone
I take a break from you (unwillingly)
and want you to know, if they weren’t making me
this would never be a thing
you’re made to be held
you’re built for use
every smooth and rough finish therein
but these folks consider you a risk
and I have to pretend I agree for a time
tin, leaf, bowl, bit, and only tobacco be ye
pot would be more quickly accepted
for it is nicotine free
absence will make my heart grow bitter
I need you to be strong for me
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