My Little Ghosts

Ghosts, vivid as any indelible memory,

Opaque characters complex as any pain.

Whispering phantoms of fancy and debate,

Debased to be displayed within me.

Fragments of former friends and foes

Haunting the pensive moments of my mind.

Frequently visiting my somber silences

To stimulate my passive passions.

Enticing my impulses to aggravation,

My bitter hates and petty joys,

And long past my solemn recompense

They goad me into fits of familiar disillusion.

The remembered and imagined coalesce

Into perfect torments for my indolence,

So whatever quiet moments I acquire

Inevitably fill with vexatious rants.

 

Leave me be, but never go too far,

As long as I need to fill these voids.

As much as I move on, you’re still my ghosts

And I need your stimulation to survive.

Maybe once I’ve passed along

From one sad form into the next,

I’ll fill the quiet with better voices

And forms that leave me better vexed.

Troubling

Troubling signs

Finger-pointing, recklessness, and lies

Contradictory perceptions abound

Niceties as discrimination in disguise

Hollow words drowned out in the sound

Troubling signs

Bad arguments, old fallacies, and fears

Paranoid daydreams spreading thick

Dysfunctional allegiances adhered

The hierarchs appear to be sick

Troubling signs

Dogma, propaganda, and pomp

Countless irrationally vain expressions

Too much invested to be stopped

Stakes too personal for discretion

Troubling signs

Regression, obsession, and pride

Paranoid realities asserted

Religion and neurosis coincide

Hope, love, and life inverted

 

Still carrying on

Trouble and tumult breed excellence

Sagas of struggle must always be told

When death and injustice are eminent

Ideas and ideals are all that one can hold.