burn it out,
busted down and bloody,
sore and beat,
breathe deep the musty air,
into your insomniac-tired lungs,
grab hold of some metal,
and set fire to your body,
dance with the pain,
dig down deep into the darkness,
feel the sadness twist and kick,
stickin' and movin'
pushin' and throwin'
don't listen to the screaming voices of the early morning,
the middle of the day,
the late night,
it's just Makyo,
work it out,
exorcise it,
minute to minute,
this daily meditation,
of beating back the bad Self.
it wants to keep you hurt,
and apathetic,
so you remain nothing,
drowning in drama,
unrealized,
concealed,
inauthentic,
it's the source of your problems,
monks call this the "ox,"
so you need to tame it,
it's going to be hard,
everyday,
it's a mean ox,
so it's ok to cry,
but don't let the ox win.
where does an old blog go?
an old blog hangs like an old sign,
outside an empty hotel,
full of empty rooms,
squeaking in the rusty, dusty wind,
an empty house,
like an empty heart,
it used to be a busy place,
full of ideas,
creative hands,
dancing footsteps and music,
lines and verses,
rhymes and curses,
traversed like a busy highway,
coming and going,
connecting and separating,
closing and opening,
to an unpredictable world,
of panic and peace,
health and disease,
promises of salvation,
then the hidden fees,
a old blog is a punch,
a kiss,
a push,
a pull,
a build up and a tear down,
a place to take a thought,
write it down,
throw some words around it,
because you like the sound,
an old blog is a journey that need not go far,
an old blog is a drink in a late night bar,
it's what's left when I subtract,
the way I want things to be,
from the way they are,
an old blog is the light from a dying star.
a swipe from death,
a fly on the wall,
we never know what's coming,
or what we're waiting for at all,
the mercury goes up,
the rain comes down,
sometimes I sleep so deeply,
I sleep right through the sound,
of the aching world within,
and the void that surrounds,
I can see the pain in a friend's eyes,
and I know that everything, good or bad, eventually dies,
as sure as rivers dry up,
and rivers rise,
as sure as the Self is the universe,
the universe is a thought,
a product of,
a muscle pumping blood,
to grey matter behind the eyes,
as sure as I'm walking in the dark to the 18th hole,
at the end of the night,
surrounded by fireflies.
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inspired by M.J.S. aka. The Cattail Creek Kid
"And I thought you beat the inevitability of death, to death, just a little bit."
- The Tragically Hip (Inevitability of Death)
