I didn’t meet my monster in the dark.
I met it at the inner bargaining table,
where I sat across from myself
and tried to reason with a hunger
that wasn’t really hunger at all.
It knew every argument I’d make~
I’ll start over tomorrow,
just this once,
I deserve something small to take the edge off.
And I watched myself nod with complicity,
even when I knew the script by heart.
The table was crowded with ghosts:
loneliness pretending to be appetite,
fear dressed up as craving,
shame taking notes in the corner
as if preparing a case against me.
I kept thinking I needed more willpower,
but what I really needed
was to stop negotiating with pain
as if it were a reasonable guest.
One day, I finally looked across the table
and saw the monster wasn’t a creature
but a wounded version of me~
the part that never learned
how to ask for compassion and comfort
without claiming it in secret.
And that was the moment
the bargaining stopped.
Not because I won,
but because I finally understood
who I’d been arguing with
all those years.
Unlike all other species on the Earth
We do not explore and move and spread out
Based on necessity or compulsion.
No, we do so simply because it’s there.
It is our nature, given us at birth.
We are restless unless we move about.
Our wild, restless hearts fuel our propulsion,
And onward and forward do we repair.
Our unquiet hearts are surely a sign
Of our heavenly home for which we pine.
Fundamental compulsion to think of who you are automatic belief system diminished
Following validation sup to drink so to view eyes reluctant victim of casualties consume premise
12/24/25
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2025
If there were no one else but me,
~~I would still be writing my poetry.
Written August 23, 2022
ah, yes, Monet
delicate brush
subtle pastels
repetition
trying to get it right
trees, lily pads, meadows, flowers,
redoing and redoing,
the same scene many times over
trying to perfect his craft
he did not realize that he already had
Charlotte tried a new kind of game
her results always stayed the same
called tic-tac-toe
it was never a go
poor Charlotte was driven insane
no din less more pronounced upon your ear
scallions separated blend to meet the stew
when hearty hearts drink out the broth of fear
and bury those with heavy hearts they knew
long mornings sun bestowed upon
when laddies grew beneath
and lads to lasses onward come
to part the laurel wreath
Tis hill we fools apart the path will travel
hats upon a head no longer there
and when to meet the layers to unravel
and when is left the floor yet barely bare
in ages ancient passed behind the eye
I long the longest sound to whisper now
and you may bring the bringing all for aye
but never will this song be singing low
ye cannot enter here nor can I come
for this the place that none can call their home
to hither yonder plain and tip to dome
none can worship all that worship some
some drink to fill the tears that they have lost
some cost is paid for every spill we see
though our hearts may fairly break each day
each day is payment fair for what we be
Desire glides in on calico wings,
a breath of a moth
seeking a companionable light,
where it hovers, unsure,
sullen, shy or demure,
in the margins of night,
a soft blur.
With a frantic dry rattle
of alien wings,
it rises and thrums one long breathless staccato
and flutters and drifts on in dark aimless flight.
And yet it returns
to the flame, its delight,
as long as it burns.
I feel compelled to write again
about this girl, ad nausium,
as though she will appear
because I do.
She said “You’ve got to let her go,
because her pain will only grow;
you’ll reap what you have sown!
It’s only selfish,”
But I know that behind those words,
She thought, “Your children are like swords
to me—oh, aren’t I adored?
It’s now, you fool, or never!”
And when she knew that I would stay,
She lingered for a bit to pray
then carried on her way,
and we wrote letters.
We talked about the things that changed
about me, and of her deranged
arrangement with a Northern man,
among whom she had darkled.
Then she fell into an abyss.
I may have saved her with a kiss,
but when the chance had come to her,
she missed; may God forgive her.
It grabbed hold with teeth
Waking me, and dashing me against my own self
Skipping the bathroom
I ran to the computer
Trying to remember some of it
Magical words placed by spirit
Only half-understood by me.
I did not know I was a writer yet.
Let alone a poet!
Happens more often now
That I am willing to accept
My own soul truth.
Why do I write
I cannot not write, that is why
It is a compulsion
I wake up with a poem or a song spitting out of my mouth.
I jump out of my bed and hit the computer before the john
People in my family know when the keys are clicking,
Do not speak to me
Do not look at me
And above all else do not stop me
For once stopped,
I am in a pretty foul mood
Horrible to be around, for the end of the sentence I had in my
Mind which was perfect is gone forever
Many people tell me they want to write but there is no time.
I write in cars, in the grass, in the rain, waiting in a doctor's office
If I do not have paper I use a receipt, a menu, a Kleenex
I do not recommend the Kleenex, but if I am desperate enough,
I will. The trick is to not be too brutal with it.
There is no time to breathe.
There is no time to watch people.
There is no time to do a million things
But for me there is always time to write.
It comes oozing out of my pores, into my fingertips, and I
Cannot stop it.
Writing for me is like breathing.
It is my bliss, my talent, my therapy.
Not writing would be death for me.
Why would I choose that?
Wag, gaw, art, rat, tar, tea, eat, ate
An avid scrabble player, I can see two or three words
Simultaneously now.
I see mthabta and think bathmat.
I have received best game of the week
For three years worth of weeks.
I do not say this as a brag.
My point is that I like word games.
WoKn TWha I mean?
If I could quit competing I would, but there is this
competition maniac inside me that will not let me stop.
Mmtyxad excites me because it has big-point letters.
Q and J are both worth ten points as is Z
But if it is toward the end of a game you will
probably be stuck with them.
Although ZA and JO and QI are scrabble words.
I am excited by the strategies I can use too.
I have not played hundreds of word games.
I have not played thousands of word games.
I have played tens of thousands of word games.
Online within the last four years. Bbtedqs.
Just one of my little compulsions.
a black rose offers pink play on golden hayfield - a plum compulsion
January 3, 2018
Monoku 4: Colours - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
I breathe you like air
every moment you stay with me
In my imagination
you drive me relish and cherish
this beautiful world around
I see this world differently
gauge people's intentions
and motives within feelings
Poetry you're my compulsion.
But without your consent I wanted to do nothing, that your good deed
might not be by compulsion, as it were, but voluntary. (Philemon 1:14
NKJV)
The redemption of God is beyond forgiveness
And insurance against eternal separation
From the God who shares His life with the known.
Redemption creeps from the changed heart
And crawls to capture the swinging emotions
And caterpillars through the chained mind.
Redemption once instant then works by stealth
What was by compulsion becomes voluntary
The desire changing to labour for righteousness.
The exchanged heart gains new cravings
The forgiveness, the new status begins to work
From compulsion until it looks like Christ !.
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