There are no sticks

There are no sticks

In the yard

Big enough to lay across

My back

No blades so keenly ground

As to slice through

The armoury of excuses

Keeping my powder dry

As a storm of thankless tasks

Batter hard against my

Defence posts

No matter how many times

There is intention directed

Toward recovery

There will be pause.

Thought is a process

Of balance

Finely cut

Through with an even

Weight afforded

To every argument

Blunting

Even the sharpest point

The backlift required

To hack away the dross

Of my existence

Lay bare the truth of my

Weakness

Is restricted

By the lack of freedom

In the follow through

We are tightly strung

Instruments

Play my tune

It is nary as sweet

As the song

Of the plaintive

Am I that innocent

As to be a torch song

With a happy ending

Doubt is a prison

From which

I look upon

The uncertainty

Of pleasure and principle

With little prospect

Or measure of success

Dreaming

Of what might

Have been if only

My resolve

Had been as finely honed

As the sculpting

Of mine own ego.