Bottled ambition is like a poison.
Growing deadlier over time.
In a everyday world, void of purpose, void of reason,
Imitating life like a mime.
The force is compacted. Discredited. Contained…
Invisible to everyday eyes.
It beckons to all who would hope to allure
It’s aspiration into it’s demise.
Fueled by opposition and thrilled to the core,
By circumstances combating the norm.
Inspired by visions of innovation and dreams,
It reacts in defiance to conform.
Fierce torment and anguish accompanies time
That is empty, quiet and still.
Afraid of the silence reaching into my soul.
It’s intent: to create or to kill.
Pain cuts deeper still, Love’s grasp longer holds
The extreme often lived in extremes.
Destitution of purpose, slowing starving my soul,
A desperation more cruel that it seems.
When the taunting exhausts me, and there’s not a thing I can do,
Left to cry or to wish or to seethe,
I lie awake empty nights desperate to calm my torn soul,
By listening to myself breath.
Morning awakes me. Then it comes to take me:
A lust for a purpose to live.
I’m only alive when there’s danger or pain,
Challenge or something to give.
Driven, angry, hopeful, and sad…
Then ecstatic when finally I find,
A purpose, a challenge, somebody to love,
Something to channel my mind.
My hands are shaking with the need to create.
My feet move, anxious to move on.
I dive into my fears so that fear has no hold,
But silence is a fear rarely gone.
Silence in love, reflection, meditation…
It helps to make my heart whole.
But the fear that I face, I am desperate to kill,
Is the silence within my own soul.