I think too much; I'm a Thoughtaholic
Got a chronic case and the addiction's got me good
An acquired taste
But isn't everything?
I'm thinking to remember to forget but I don't
Circles unto circles and I've wound myself up
I wind up here: thinking again
I'm thinking of everything and nothing
Racing down the track to my future and demise
What do I see?
It's too fast, but I've thought it
I've thought it and the thinking will catch up with me
My liver will shut down
I guess my metaphor will shut down long before that
But I'm thinking myself to death
Like an old alchie
I'm thinking alone again
Thinking a double, on the rocks

news paper pages
scatter along a ***** wind
some caught in fences separating
some free to climb into the forever of
deep blue sky pure sunshine
washed clean of the sins printed on its page
only photographs remain
a black & white image of the old man
feeding pigeons along the empty path
that lead him there

news paper pages
forever silently burning in a collapse of worlds
so old the smoke has died away
pages with masterful words written
never finding lips to uncage their meaning
a beauty of phrase that has never faded
a chain link barrier between what its
long dead author spoke eloquently
and the world disguised by years of dead dust
only photographs remain
a faded image of an old man
walking the sunset
a scattering of bread crumb's
stretching back along his trail
leading not into the living sky
forever shifting between dark and light
but into the dusty caverns of twilight
forever twilight

by candle light
he will pour over the things he never spoke
wishing only for a voice once more
a way to tell her
about all those yesterdays ago
the why's and whatnot's
that he fiddles with
like wooden toys ever more finely crafted
never to knowing play
never to escape the gathering dust

here he sits
in his comfy chair
tea and biscuits gone cold
and his lips ****** with gentle care
words written on discarded news paper pages
like bread crumbs scattered for
birds that never come
© 2017 mark john junor all rights reserved

In a empty bath tub,
       I washed you forever away...

The plug hanging silent,
       As tears collapsed downward...

A hollow basin awash with regrets,
      cradled within a vacant space.

I dropped my jagged reflection,
                 not letting it cut into me..

The only thing scaring this emptiness
                 are my tears, as I walk out stronger...

Were all metaphors,
people cant read us all the time,
             and envision what they want to see..

So taking us in abstract moments,
reading us as a metaphor
                of there first impressions..

Not reading further..
finding out that were more
           than just what that first paragraph said..

So who ever birthed this version of
mans needing to blame another...
regrettably we seem to blame another...
but when it was stitched into the verse..
to many cooks cooking to many in verse..

But then he slipped in free will, will
he let us grow our own apples but
now he let us choke on our will
to eat what we sewed, then we said, but...

Shoved in the cold, but still our path
was pre-written, but his spelling missed its path.
Now who can sink and swim, I'm not a fish?
but now those pre-written, drowning food for fish.

I'm confused and insecure, that I'm but a string
that just pulled, now tie in this piece of string?
What I'm just tied in a story not of my own.
But then I unknotted myself my stories my own.

I found that a path isn't just one but a crossroads
of my design. How many paths are crossroads,
how many fall between dead ends I don't care,
my life is my own, no abandonment issues to care.

I'll eat every dam apple, I want to eat to be me,
sulk to my freedom of thought ill always be me.
I'll walk this collection of glances, and look up seeing
the universe clearly, it a life of chaos that I'm seeing.