circumstantial as the warden 3/27/19

there is this prison 

as the prison of my own narrative.

and the resourcefulness with which 

I keep myself totally confined.

asking of others

to respect my inhabited-ness.

telling others my story

as victimhood would allow. 

buoyant in a life of secret sorrow,

yet thriving in the minimalism 

of a wellspring of predicament.

featuring futures 

that disappointment will paint.

living in a room 

posterized with hard life images.

forever my motors are running,

driven by interior emotional reaction 

more than cognitive response.

having the inaccessible wisdom of sages within

yet cursing, as muted anger, 

through my vanity of veins.

my projection to others is

as if my animation could come 

into a sweet beneficence from secret rage.

I comfort myself of my afflictions, 

in the privacy of an intimate self-dialogue,

as appearing to be bound to self-conversation

that no one else can really enter in response.

for the way it is topic bound,

there is a pitch to my self-preachyness

but others only hear the murmurs

said in self as stoic delivered silence.

I have a self-industrious 

as if a way to whittle on the would of the day.

emotionally I abide 

by a set of highbrow virtues

that I can never,

in my discovery and despise, keep.

I have, as personal audience,

of those who can never truly understand.

they are ones that I expect from,

a sense of praise and support,

but instead, a muteness

is the dialogue in response.

I view life as a rocky train ride

in which everyone is all aboard.

my talents are one of my personal laments.

for circumstance seems to enslave me.

no one will ever come to know me

as a lightness of being.

I could weep

for the lack of that acknowledgment.

but my narrative has become the tongue of me.

and I have become

my own tool of circumstance.

I bleed a light that nobody sees.

I bless every deed I do

from within the clarity 

behind my self as in isolation.

I am truly a well of meaning, 

meaning well.

I would be a healer of others

if circumstances ever presented in that way.

I bless every deed I do, 

but hide it in a self fashion of subdue.

I am always in the presence of others

by my acceptance 

of my apparent deep absence

for the spirit of the way. 

I bless each moment and every deed

in a blind darkened sacred cursing way.

narrative is my cover

but nurturance, even self nurturance, 

is my way.

perhaps you will pass by me

or the likes of others, there of, randomly

in the ever so 

of the ongoing 

of the day by day.

but neither of us will be the wiser

in that moment of intimacy 

for its justice is not on display.

yet some truth of being

will come to each of us

in that privacy 

of our own separate 

but connected way . . .