You take the Wagon, I'll Walk

Call it a compulsion, some do.
A dependence, that's a little strong
for a need that's called a want.
Can't help it, I'm not in control,
something takes over me,
its always right there-I could...
and all these have me consumed.
Obsessed, I don't see it that way,
but others do, see signs, like theirs-
the jaw gives it away.

The blame game is fun too,
it must be that the jeans are too tight.
Sometimes breathing is the hardest thing to do.
If you try to quit, I know desperation, infatuation,
give you a raise you can't refuse.

Stimuli, it is called physiological.
Personality, is embedded, biological, maybe...
and might there be other habituals and rituals
toxic but not intoxicating-tolerance is discouraged.

I don't deny my own flesh and blood
has been sacrificed for my own cause.
It's my body, self-satisfaction and
distractions from your dutiful employment
as a clean-coming human whose sobriety
is always a right when given a choice of
life with poetry, its pain and withdrawal
or an existence without the possibility of significance.

Since its all in my head,
any-which-way,
and there's no shortage of excuses-
I will wrestle with these wily words,
wanting more, needing a fix, hating myself,
hiding and using, manipulating and placating
going broke, being ostracized and advised
until there is no more poetry left anywhere-
or I'll likely overdose on what I've said.





Image of painting by Arthur Nikutowski, The broken wagon, 1852 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Confession of an Obsession

Since a poem is a perfect place

             in which to hide a secret

it just so happens to be the case

             that nobody's found it yet

A place in which to utter

             a covert illicit little truth

as discreet as melted butter

             not to be uncouth

but it's later than due time

              to admit to one and all

I am guilty of a crime

              I will confess without stall

I'm enrapt in a torrid love affair

some juicy details I will share

The smell I cannot resist

which may have led to this tryst

I constantly search and obsess

it is a purely pathetic weakness

that saps me dry

but I will always try

Amassing more and more

until I find what I'm looking for

This infatuated relationship

                is a one way street

while there is companionship

                we will never actually meet

I dream of cuddling in bed

                under covers where a little light

is pointing to where I just read

                 and could go on all night

Igniting my mind

                 into a frenzied passion

an addiction of this kind

                 one should try to ration

Time and devotion

with the notion

that you'll never have enough

room for more stuff

if you keep acquiring books

yet still one obsessively looks

since solutions are often found

on pages that are bound

lasciviously labeled as Fiction

which is just a categorical diction

My endless reading is a search

                     to find how much one can know

a library perhaps is my church

                      stretching one's brain to grow

but a book can also be called a spell

                      some are innocent and some evil

by the cover you cannot tell

                       the influence is one's own will

caving under printed pressure

                       but as long as you enjoy the ride

or maybe find a buried treasure

                        I will no longer try to hide

This minor flaw in my character

Just ask the narrator

Where in my own life story

Tells not for glory

But to assert aloud

that I am proud

to admit I am a bibliophile

and my 'To Read' pile

is at least a mile

it should take me a while

to read them all

so I really shouldn't fall

for another book sale

until I finish my latest epic tale.

Image By Burnett, Alexander. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons