There are the few, then there are the
Rest of them.
Chatter boxes, bipolar manic woman, that men
Try to escape from.
Those that are men over here are of course put,
Into jails or prisons.
The magic of silence,
For the blessed few are able to dream any dream
Night or day
And prearrange the out come of what they dream, while
Wide awake before going to bed.
Without the preconceived notion of very hard work, to
Obtain the solution,
To each master piece, each work of art, even the words
That to most can't conceive.
For those few that have come they have not the ability,
To put up with the rest that make useless noise.
Precognition, remote viewing, complex math the writing of music,
The ability to master in a brief period of time
Most cerebral disciplines that take the rest forever to learn,
If they are blessed with that special genetic material.
Because for most that can travel into solitude, it creates within
Them that unnatural fear,
The fear that most have of living and dying alone.
James McLain Friday, October 13, 2017
love at least as I knew it
was blatantly bleak I suppose
love had been wasted on morbid findings
lost beyond repair had I been in love
with love or perhaps thee mere objects
of affection clouding all logistics beliefs
of what love should be at least love
as I knew it could I in some way change
the way love turned out if I myself
fell madly in love with the idea of loving myself
could one actually love themselves
as they consumed love with another being
or was love this impossible challenge
incapable of experiencing without loving
oneself first and foremost and if this was factual
I'd have to be faced with sheer logic
that I'd broken my own heart
knowing full well no one could
love me more than I myself
this preconceived notion
had broken everything
I'd ever known completely
thee unamendable love
at least as I knew
I was supposed to be transparent
but you didn’t really see through that mask I wore
the one that hid who I was but you still believed
that I was transparent and happy
only that was the face I put on everyday
I guess that if you saw me really smile
you would be astounded in the beauty of the truth
all you've ever seen was a beautiful lie
In all matters of reality I’m not who you think
I have layers that would make you cringe
because of the pain you never saw
or the tears that no one ever fought
only I know the whole story so dark and deep
of the pain found within little ol’ me
why did everyone accept this mask
no one truly asked who is the real me
The only me you ever saw was the one who
fit a preconceived notion of Sarah Lee
I guess I could take off some layers
make it so easy but then you still wouldn't see
because to see my core you must be God
or somehow convince me that you are worthy
of the entirety of all of me
So what can one expect next?
Is it the complexity of words that draws us near?
To delve deeper into the void of interminable text
Would one have to first examine what to them is dear?
What is in a word?
Is it the sound one makes when vocalizing vocabulary?
Or is it the emotion a word produces, such as the flight of a bird?
This, is unknown, thus my motives are extraordinary
To write poetry, is to live
And all sonnets are beautiful, this, a preconceived notion
Despite a piece’s theme, be it realistic or fictive
Assuredly, sonnets remain as poetry in motion
‘Tis only my humble speculation
That poetry will endure the most onerous tribulation
The contrails scar the morning sky
like cicatrix’s on a slaves back.
I sit and watch them multiply:
white insidious, noxious tracks
that linger long among the clouds
spreading lethal depositions
never knowing their whereabouts’
but knowing their compositions;
And when the clouds begin to rain
down (acid precipitation)
it’s simple then to ascertain
Man’s faulty preconceived notion:
That they are harmless condensates;
This is supposed to vindicate?
Meanwhile, a drizzle
began quietly falling
upon fragile earth.
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