by Sylvia P.
Always looking for that solemn face,
the eyes that travel into that deeper space
A face burdened by some inner conflict.
A face hellbent on reflection.
A specific inner dialogue I could never hope to know.
And yet, I feel it,
the same arresting hold that the
introspection has over a mind.
The same self-reflection restraining my thoughts.
The endless spinning motion of the circular thought pattern
This vile circuit
which seems to shut out all else like
thrusting my mind into an underwater pit where the destructive thoughts come at me like piranhas in a feeding frenzy—
And so it begins.
Relentless, insatiable, unforgiving.
Who conducts these thoughts?
From which chasm of my mind do they breed?
Why do they insist on
What good would it do to commiserate with someone
who knows the same dreary thought loop?
What use would it be to wallow and waste
and feel and taste the same salts
from tears that drive us mad?
Better to be a simple being
with a narrow way of seeing
who cannot ever hope to tread
down the path of depth and dread
under the trees and the flowerbed—
Again, the beast has got my head.
Better to be a happy fool
Caring about petty, simple things
than a mind with a poet’s heart
who does nothing but think and sing
the sad songs that arrest us so—
And so, I write.
And on, I go.