Going on and on.

I'm asking myself: what happened to my pinpoint focus?
My mad abandon?
When did I give up those little shards of God?
Is this a momentary pause?
A paradigm shift?
Simply a symptom of a greater problem?
I'm missing a big piece of what used to define me.
I am getting tired of people asking about my life as a performer.
"I'm taking a break." I say.
"Buying a house."
The truth is, my heart isn't in it and I don't know why.
It can't be completely explained by the brightness of the sun
Or by the opaque clouds.
Too sudden for a real change
But too sustained for a simple rest.
I don't choreograph in my head anymore.
I dread the steps it takes to get to practice my art.
I make excuses and waffle about, flapping my arms and whining.
I keep thinking that the energy will just come
That my old sparks of glitter and glass will appear when they will.
That this is just what I'm supposed to do right now.
But I'm afraid that if i wait too long, I'll forget what that
Exquisite crossroads looks like.
I'll have given up on my art, my passion, my dreams and ideals.
"The Show Must Go On", indeed.
Right?

Winner/Winter

Winner, winner, Turkey dinner.
Layers getting thinner, thinner.
And it's only start of winter...

Layers, yes. Feeling like I have two layers of reaction
We all do
And it's more or less a choice
Some days more, some days less,
Of which we see.
And which we feel.
Bring me light, bring me perspective
Show me, because the easy way out
My little shortcuts, prove less helpful
And more harmful
Am I improving, getting stronger or simply substituting?
Sugar for syrup
Rubies for sapphires.

The apple of my diamond eye
You gleam in your red coat.
I roll the words over my tongue, but keep them close
And silent.
Don't read too much into it, my silence.
It's not consent, nor even approval.
"Same" isn't always "Fair" I know
Though you're fairly a thief
Having stolen my thoughts so.

Open wide and swallow hard
This coping cop out really suits my style.
Resplendent in jeweled furs...
How can I resist becoming your accomplice?

Wasn't

It wasn't you and it wasn't me
It was just us, lying there in the dark
Never knowing what to say or how
Whittling away at the cold days and long nights
Carving out the moments to the end
You were a gift
But I couldn't take it
A tear, at the seam
Never fell so far.
Have to is a funny phrase
You're right, I choose to.
And so do you.
But it wasn't just you, nor just me
But the both of us, standing there in the kitchen
That turned, then, and walked away.

Want.

Left to choose
Forced to wonder
Forced.
Wandering between boundaries
Between wants and needs, we figure it out slowly
I rush headlong too often
Excited, steering too far into the weeds, sometimes
We all fall down
We all get up again.
We all spend an afternoon in the corner.
Tired, spent from a week's whirling intensity
Can't tell the difference here between let down and lonely
I've no objectivity left, no aloofness to save me
"I'm on my knees, and the water creeps to my chest."
I've started dreaming again, dreaming of water in pools that swirl about my ankles and thighs.
It doesn't choke me, just slows my way and is frighteningly still.
"I will hold on..."

Cant even fake it, left naked.
Cant even lift it, alright.
Take me over, I'll give it.
Drag me into the light.

The back and forth
The ups and downs
The fog that creeps up behind me and steals something precious
But always leaves me with more.
The flaming in and out that also leaves me with more.

Constant companion, does one of us ever win?

Love me for.

All you ever wanted.

So simply put, but so heavy with meaning.

Heavy in my mind and on my shoulders.

Of course I wish things were different

I wish it were enough, just you and I.

I wish sometimes that things were easier, that it didn't have to be so hard

I wish, with a smile, that we could drink the kool-aid

That we could just believe, too.

But you see now, how I can't just believe, I have to live

How I can't just go through life without smelling each and every single rose

Who I am, not who you want me to be.

Thank you for making me feel a little less like it's a pathology

And a little more like it's a hymn I sing and my battle cry in life.

Less like it's that the lines are blurred, more like it's just how I am alive.