Rules of this Game

Every day is like the one before,

No new trinkets, same old doors,

The sounds are all the same to me,

Rehashed words, overused slang

All thoughts displayed in flashback,

Memories on hiatus,

Thoughts deposed,

Emotions numb at best,

How do you change course mid-way through?

Do you stop and think it out?

Should you abruptly change directions and turnabout?

Is it possible to even understand?

If only there was a reset button close at hand,

If only there were roadmaps for things like this,

How do you alter your perception?

Does it matter if all those thoughts were elaborate deceptions?

How do you plug a leak?

How do you strengthen one so weak?

Is it possible even to explain?

If only there was a mulligan in this game,

If only, a long ways back, someone, anyone, would have explained, the rules to this game.

A Lazy Affair

This has all the possibilities

And resembles very much

The makings, incomplete, yet seemingly whole,

Of a an ill-conceived devotional,

A detrimental rite of passageway,

The lazy affair,

Our nonchalance, always display,

In fact the casual nature is rather

Refreshing in the cavalier nature

Of disregard being the only

Common thread we share,

It began months before and sometime after,

It’s been so long, we’ve since forgotten

How it all began,

I tried the other day, as you stared lifeless at the ceiling,

What did I ever see?

Where did the passion go, was it even ever there?

Asking if I’d prefer the news,

I guess how matter of fact this all has got,

I always reply no, of course not,

To which she falls backward once again

Blandness of the Walking Stick

Redundancy is a part of life,

Without there’d be no commonplace,

No old hats or uncanny spice,

Life would compose itself

With brushstrokes of different paint

Each day a new palette for ourselves to face,

Passion grows stale just like actions do,

A fever runs and the cloth cools the skin

Afterwards you cautiously retrace your

Steps to avoid anything you could have done,

And thus any excitement you may have felt

Had become flavored with a form of allergic tongue,

Routines and cycles,

Ruts and quicksand,

We face these villains every day,

From clichés to clichés we like,

But have been told to hide

Any invitation to such thoughts away,

To be awake yet pretend not to see

To convince interest when you must pinch

Yourself not to sleep,

If only we were honest,

With each other, with ourselves, perhaps then  acrid odors we could dispell